Wounds
by strangebloke
Summary: When Robert died on the Trident, no one knew what to expect from his younger brother. This story focuses on Westeros as ruled by a young Stannis. Davos and Lyanna Stark are the primary perspective characters.
1. Prologue

Robert's Rebellion had come at last to its climax. A hundred thousand men had gathered, wearing Eagles, Wolves, Stags, Dragons or Flowers. Screams of death filled the air and the Trident ran red with blood. The war was over what man should be king of the seven kingdoms, but each man had his own reasons for fighting. Family, glory, loyalty, cruelty…

Robert Baratheon fought for a girl.

His Lyanna, his sweet girl. The girl he had loved more than any other; the girl he had been fated to marry. The girl that the Dragons had stolen from him. No, not the Dragons. It had been Rhaegar. Rhaegar had been the one to steal his Lyanna from him. Rhaegar, the perfect prince. "The king may be mad but his heir is a good man." they would always say, apologizing for Aerys' madness and cruelty. That 'good man' had taken the sweetest, fiercest, most beautiful girl in Westeros, had stolen her from his family, and had raped her a hundred times by now. Only now, months later, had Rhaegar been pulled away from that occupation. Robert's fury had accomplished that. Next, Robert's fury would accomplish his death.

Robert's vision swam with red as he swung down his war hammer, crushing the skull of a crownslander knight. He had lost his lance somewhere earlier in the fray and he had not taken the time to turn back and get a new one. His hammer fell again and again, coming up bloody after every strike. He had been fighting for hours, but he was scarcely aware of the passage of time. At some point Corbray had made a charge to cover his flank. At some point he had stopped fighting Tyrell levies and had moved onto Crownslanders.

The Dragon's banner had been growing steadily closer. Rhaegar was beneath that banner. "Come fight me, blackguard!" Robert screamed. "Come stand trial by combat! I've no thirst for the blood of your lackeys!" A knight of Duskendale closed with Robert. Robert shifted in his saddle, letting the knight's estoc glide off of his armor. His horse gnashed its teeth and stamped, turning to give Robert a better angle. The knight moved his shield to deflect the hammer, but so great was the weight of the hammer that he still nearly lost his seat. Robert swung his hammer again, and when the hammer slammed into the knight's chest, Robert could feel the ringing in his arms. The Duskendale Knight toppled lifeless from his horse.

Robert laughed aloud as his knights cheered him on. "Come on lads!" he called out, "We can't keep the monster waiting, now can we?" A resounding shout was their reply and they pressed on. They pressed on through row after row of knights. Many of them fell. They were replaced by new knights. Blood and gravel gave way to water as they entered the shallows.

That was when Robert saw him. A little ways up the line, resplendent in jet-black armor, with dragon-wings etched into his helmet. A storm filled Robert's' chest and exploded out of his throat. "RHAEGAR! COME OUT TO DIE!" In that moment, the battlefield vanished. Lyanna disappeared from his thoughts. Only he and the black prince existed and all else was meaningless noise. He raced to Rhaegar, heedless of danger. The black prince turned his head. Robert struck down a bothersome gnat of man in the way. They were thirty feet apart, twenty, ten.

Rhaegar's estoc skewered Robert just below the shoulder, tearing a hole in the mail and making him bleed. Robert ignored it. The long narrow blade could be deadly, but a hit to the shoulder was not a mortal wound. Anything less than a mortal wound at this point was meaningless. This fight was the end, nothing after it needed to be considered. He took the hit, swinging his hammer in thunderous reply. Rhaegar adjusted his seat and let the blow slide off of his shield, countering with a tight jab that cut into the hole he had made earlier.

Rhaegar Targaryean was a smaller man than Robert. He was weaker and had not pursued warfare with the single-minded focus that Robert had. But he was also more fresh and clear-headed than his opponent. He kept his eye on that deadly hammer, taking every precaution to dodge and weave away from it. Every time the hammer fell, he countered with a rapid thrust. Robert was bleeding, and that was all that mattered.

"WHERE IS LYANNA?" Robert bellowed, when the horses force them apart for a moment. "WHERE IS SHE, RHAEGAR?" He heaved his hammer again, and he felt the pain throb in his shoulder. Rhaegar did not answer, electing instead to lean out of the way of the deadly weapon.

Robert's rage had only been building with each passing strike. Deep, abiding hate filled him. In another universe, his hammer had found its home on the third strike and had borne Rhaegar deep into the Trident. In this one, Robert's rage overtook him. He closed with Rhaegar again, and again Rhaegar's esctoc lashed out. This time, Robert did not even make a pretense of dodging. He let the blade cut into his shield-arm and dropped his hammer, grabbing the black prince's wrist with his massive mailed fist and ripping him bodily from the saddle.

They both fell into the waters of the trident and came up fighting. Gone was the clash of legendary knights, replaced by an ugly brawl more fitting of Flea Bottom than of the trident. Rhaegar punched and kicked and twisted, but Robert's hands were like steel bands. He held onto Rhaegar's wrist and punched him with his shield. He punched him again, and then a third time, and then he lost count. Robert did not even notice when Rhaegar stopped hitting back. "LYANNNAA!" He finally screamed, crumpling the black prince's helm with a final blow. Around him, the battle had already been won. The forces of the Royalists retreating as their leader fell.

The haze of battle lifted from Robert. Rhaegar was dead. He had killed the man so many times in his dreams of late that it almost did not feel real to have finally done it. Robert wandered through the ranks of his soldiers, drunk on victory. They brought a half-dead Barristan Selmy before him. He pardoned the poor bastard, what else could he do? The day had been so long so and full of fighting, and he was tired, all the exhaustion of the day crashing onto him at once. He saw his friend, Ned, ride up to him, and greeted him with a glowing smile.

"Ned, you made it out alive!"

Ned smiled, but the smile was strained. "Your Grace…" Robert scowled. Why did his best friend insist upon… "You are wounded."

Robert glanced at the wounds that Rhaegar had left him. They had seemed so small at the time, he hadn't gotten them looked at, but now… "I suppose I am bleeding rather a lot." He could feel the sticky sap of dried blood caking underneath his cuirass. It was a good thing he was such a big man. A man of Ned's size would probably have bled to death. "Aye, I should see to it. Get me a maester, a hot fire, and enough wine to drown myself in and I will be right by morning."

Halfway to the maester's tent, Robert Baratheon, first of his name, king of the Andals and of the First men, fell off of his horse and died.


	2. Chapter 1:The King is Dead

The body of the King had been laid in a tent. The story for the moment was that he had fainted, and required the attentions of a maester. The truth would be out soon enough, but even a small amount of time was invaluable. An army needed leadership, needed direction. If news of Robert's death spread to the army before the rebellion's leadership collected itself, the only result would be panic.

Dark thoughts filled Ned's head as he looked upon the massive corpse that had been Robert Baratheon. There was a maester poking and prodding it, checking for evidence of poison, treachery, and all other unnatural causes. Ned was familiar with death. His father, his brother, his sister in all likelihood, and now his best friend as well. This war had cost too much. The prince, Rhaegar, had died too. Robert might have found comfort in that fact. Ned only felt cold.

"Too much blood lost." The maester's grave face turned to Ned. He gestured at Robert's battered armor, and the blood-soaked coat that had gone underneath. "His Grace had been bleeding internally for hours, in addition to his other wounds. Stab wounds from his fight with Rhaegar, aggravated by Robert's own strength, a bruised rib from where he fell off of the horse… most of the damage was hidden by his armor. A deep wound often hurts less than a shallow one, it is likely His Grace didn't believe himself to be mortally injured. Even if he had sought help immediately..." the maester spread his hands apologetically. "His Grace had lost so much blood."

He died of his wounds. That was not so surprising, really. More knights died after the battle than during, after all. Every knight knew to have his wounds inspected as soon as possible, but so often there were other priorities. In the heat of a fight, a man could ignore any number of injuries, and Robert had been a tough, stubborn bastard. Gods, after killing Rhaegar the man must have felt invincible. Everyone else in the rebellion had fixated on Aerys but for Robert, Rhaegar might as well have been the Other himself. A dull smile tugged at Ned's lips a moment. At least his friend had died without regrets.

"The pain would have been little enough, I'm happy to say," The maester said with a cough. "However-"

An armored form parted the tent and the maester's voice trailed off. The man who entered was tall, straight, and dressed in plain gray armor. "Leave us." The man stated, and so the maester did. "Tell no one yet."

Jon Arryn. The Lord of the Eyre and Ned's second father. The man _had_ been as good as a father to Robert these last few years, and without his planning the rebellion would have been impossible. "Ned..." the man breathed, a deep sympathy suddenly coming into his voice. "I came as soon as I could. I hardly believed it when I heard, but..."

"Aye." Ned stated. There was nothing else to say. This wasn't the first friend they had buried together.

Silence ruled for a minute. Jon went to the body and touched Robert's face with his hand, saying a silent prayer to the Seven, Ned supposed. Jon took a deep breath, and Ned realized that the old man was crying.

The tent flap opened and the towering, heavy figure of Hoster Tully moved in. He did not say anything for a moment, letting the men grieve. Several minutes passed, and when Hoster finally spoke, it was with a voice like gravel. "We need to decide on a path forward, Ned, Jon. With respect to the crown, I mean. Mourning must come after."

Other take him, did it always have to be about the bloody crown? Robert had been a king, but he had been a friend first. Others take the crown too. The bloody thing had hardly done Ned any favors.

And yet… he was right. Ned sighed. There were tens of thousands of living men who needed their attention at the moment. The dead could be buried later. "Aye." Ned stated again. "I have thought about that some. It has to be Stannis or Renly next, we don't have any other option. If we hadn't already killed Rhaegar, or if we hadn't crowned Robert, or if..." If Robert had not died, "...we might talk, but as it stands, Stannis is our king, if he lives."

"I don't know that we have to declare for him." Hoster rumbled. "We declared for Robert, because of who he was, not because of his bloodline. We never properly crowned him, though so it isn't the same as it might be otherwise."

"You're speaking of a regency." Jon's voice was very soft.

"Well, I am, I suppose. That's what we were trying to do to begin with, and as mad as Rhaegar and Aerys were, there have been good Targaryen kings before. Catelyn already has a child upon the way, and Lysa may as well for all I know. Marry the Targaryen children into our families and we will all be tied together. Tully, Arryn, Stark, Targaryen, and Martell. Five of the Seven Kingdoms, united to the throne by blood and covenant."

Ned did not say anything at first. His goodfather had not been as taken with Robert's bid for the throne as others had, and Stannis was a total enigma. Robert's character had made men follow while he was alive, but would it be enough to make men follow his brother while he was dead?

"If we had Aegon here, that might be one thing." Jon's voice had turned hard again. "But he is currently with his grandfather in King's Landing, or in some other loyalist holding. If we state publicly that we mean to replace Aerys with his own grandchild..."

Hoster swallowed. "Aye. Stannis is with the Tyrells, though, and even more distant than Aegon." He paused, as though a sudden though had struck him. "Just say to the men for now that we're fighting to depose Aerys, and that if Stannis is still alive when we find him, we can hold a Great Council of the Realm, with all the seven kingdoms represented."

"And what will we do, at such a council?" Ned stated flatly, his eyes fixed on Robert's corpse. "We've spat upon the Targaryen dynasty in every way we could have. We killed Rhaegar and we will kill Aerys before we're through. We broke our oaths to the Targaryens and acclaimed Robert as king. Are we going to go back on those oaths to Robert now, and swear to a baby while his father's blood is still upon our hands? All men would despise us as craven opportunists with no sense of honor."

"There's also the matter of alliances." Jon's eyes had narrowed. "You cannot rule the seven kingdoms without support from either the Westerlands or the Reach. Neither of them bear us any love and while a regency might make the Martels favorable to us, we would still have to court Tywin's favor. "

All the men in the room tensed. Tywin had been a looming, enigmatic threat throughout this whole war. The man held the second largest region in the seven kingdoms with an iron fist, and he had been ominously inactive throughout the rebellion.

Ned frowned. "We will have to make peace with him regardless."

"And if Stannis is king, Tywin has a daughter." Jon's smiled tightly. "What was it you said, Hoster? Binding our houses to the Throne? We are already bound to the Baratheon line, by covenant if not by blood."

Hoster nodded slowly. "Yes, yes… I see it now." The big man paused. "But, what sort of man is Robert's brother? He's scarcely left the Stormlands."

Stannis Baratheon. Ned had seen the frowning man only a few times. He was in form much like Robert, huge and imposing, but in temperament he was as sour as his older brother had been genial. Robert had trusted and despised Stannis in equal measure, and to all appearances Stannis had returned the sentiment. Ned cleared his throat. "From what I've seen of him, he's both responsible and serious. He'll manage the administration of a kingdom fairly. He's also very strong-willed." Ned added almost as an afterthought. "Without his determination in holding onto Storm's End, the Tyrell host at the Trident would have been half again as large."

"In any case, he's a young man, and hopefully can listen to good counsel." Jon added, earning a nod from Hoster. "Good. Glad we are all in agreement. If the man still lives, he is king."

"King Stannis Baratheon." Hoster breathed, nodding to himself.

"Aye." Ned added. "This changes little in the short term. We cannot break the siege at Storm's End without first taking King's Landing."

Jon shook his head. "We need to break the siege as soon as possible. Setting King's Landing to order might take weeks - weeks in which our king might starve to death. Or Mace might attempt something foolish, like storming the castle."

"A doomed enterprise."

"But Stannis might still die." Hoster rumbled. "If he's anything like his brother, he'll be manning the battlements with the rest of them." He laid a hand on Ned's shoulder. "How fast could you get to our King?"

Ned frowned, maps and names and numbers flitting through his head. "The Kingsroad is the fastest route, and we'll be fighting along it all the way to King's landing. There are lesser roads, which would allow a smaller force to evade the Crown's main army and move more quickly, but they are only simple dirt roads. I can move at most five thousands that way, or perhaps ten if we split into two groups. We would move quickly, since we would not have to fight and we would not have to set King's Landing to order, but..." Ned shook his head. "It is a play fraught with danger. We'll have a hard battle to break the siege at Storm's End, and we'll be incredibly exposed along the road. If the main army turns on us, or someone rallies a local army..."

"Would you get to Stannis more quickly?" Jon's eyes met Ned's.

"Weeks, maybe a whole month." Ned stated, letting out a breath. "We'll come within a day's ride of King's Landing, but we could avoid the main force." He paused. "Is this worth it? If the remnants of Rhaegar's army turns on us..."

"Stannis is our king, Ned. He takes priority over everything else." Jon scolded. "Besides that, the Crown's army is leaderless and will likely remain so. Who will rally them? The Kingsguard are dispersed, captured, or dead. The Lords of Dorne and the Reach hate each other, and the Stormlanders are viewed with suspicion by everyone. The army is bleeding hundreds of soldiers every day, and dozens of minor nobles have already defected or surrendered. By the time we get to King's landing we'll be facing mostly goldcloaks." Arryn paused. "In any case, that will be my problem. I'll cut down their scouts and pickets; they'll be as blind as they are disorganized."

"I'll need the freshest of the Northern soldiers." Ned stated firmly. "The Umbers, Karstarks, and Glovers."

"Done." Arryn stated. "You will lead half the army south, I will lead the rest to King's Landing. Hoster, if you could gather the lords for an announcement?" Hoster nodded and left the tent. As soon as he was gone, Jon shot Ned a wan smile. "My apologies, Eddard."

"You gave reasons for Hoster to support Stannis." Ned stated "They weren't your reasons. I understand that."

Jon nodded, and Ned could now see the tears in his eyes. "Robert's memory is all the reason I need. Regret is a powerful thing Ned, and I… have many things to regret."

"Aye." Ned said. His father, his brother, his sister, and now Robert too. They had all died and left him alone. "I am the same."

"Regret, anger, and a hunger for vengeance, that is what has guided us, yes? And we have found more of it along the way for our trouble." Jon laughed coldly. "But Hoster, Tywin, and Mace are motivated by different appetites. Their concern is the future, their own legacies and reputations. We have to speak their language, Ned. We must keep the Realm together. Now come, we have to announce the death of the King."


	3. Chapter 2: Long Live the King

Pain throbbed through Davos' hand. Joints he no longer possessed pulsed and burned in the morning air. The maester had told him that he might be feeling the phantom pain for the rest of his life. Davos did not know whether or not that prospect encouraged him. He touched the pouch he wore around his neck and looked out.

His mind was a hundred miles away with his wife. His _lady_ wife now, or close enough, though she lived in Flea Bottom amidst criminals and merchants. He flexed his short-fingered hand and imagined running it through her hair, along her back… He smiled to himself. It might be most of a year before he saw her again. If he saw her again. But she would wait for him. He would have a shortened hand, and she might have another child, but they would alway come together again, somewhere, somehow.

The sun was just beginning to rise over the the Stormlands. It was said that from the tallest point of Storm's End you could see halfway to King's Landing if the weather was clear. Likely a load of shite, Davos thought, but the view was impressive. The central drum tower of Storm's end was one of the tallest structures in Westeros, supposedly made to withstand an ancient god of storms. The tale was a fanciful one, but standing atop the tower Davos could nearly believe it. The wind around him howled like a beast on the hunt.

"Morning, Ser Onion!" The sound came from the hatch below. "It's awful early to be this high up in the castle." A scrawny head and neck poked it's way up onto the tower. Like everyone else in Storm's End, the man was starving. Davos was too, but he had not been in the castle long enough to earn the emaciated features that everyone else wore.

Davos smiled. "Morning." He paused, awkwardly. "Sorry, I didn't think I got your name?"

"Jerro." The man replied with a smile. "Just Jerro of Flea Bottom, no surname, though some friends call me Pointy, on account of me being able to prick whatever women as pleased me."

Davos's eyes narrowed. He had known a Pointy in Flea Bottom. It had been a winter ago, but… there, there it was. Davos saw the resemblance, all at once. The man's face had aged ten years in the past five, but it was Pointy who stood there. "You son of the Stranger, what are you doing here?" Last Davos had known, the street rat had been loading boxes full of contraband in the docks of King's Landing. He clasped the man's hand gave him a firm hug.

"Oh, we had a slow year, so I went back to me dad's family down in the town there. Thought I'd try my hand at soldiering for a bit, keep the belly full." Pointy gave a joyless laugh. "You can see how that worked out. Anyway, I've been meaning to come up and say hullo to you, seeing as we're old pals and all, but there's always been someone around."

Davos nodded. He did not consider Pointy to be an 'old pal' by any means, but he enjoyed seeing a familiar face. "You didn't think Stannis would appreciate hearing of your former career?"

"F-fuck that," Pointy stated, shivering involuntarily in the wind. "Would you have come in and saved our arses if you knew you'd lose a hand in thanks?"

Davos smiled. "A castle's worth more than a few fingers. Stannis is fair."

Pointy laughed again, hugging himself. "Oh, yeah, fair's the word. He treats everyone the same way. Harsh as vinegar." He caught Davos' eyes suddenly. "Don't get me wrong, I don't think any other man could have kept us all alive this far in a siege. If he weren't so bloody axeheaded we'd all have shivved each other already, I reckon. Or maybe we'd have surrendered, and _fuck_ that. Still, as soon as..." Pointy swallowed. "If we ever get out of here, I'm headed back to Flea Bottom. Honest living has nearly done me in. It'll do you in, too, if you let it. That castle and all the nobles looking down on you… you'll be back to smuggling wine again, I give you three years."

Davos chuckled. "You'd think differently if you had children."

"For all I know I do. Don't see what difference it would make." Pointy sniffed. "Anyway, what makes you think you're doing your brood all such a big favor? Should have asked for money and buggered off to Braavos or someat. No sense in getting tangled up with lieges and Kings and all that."

Davos looked out at the rising dawn. "Everyone serves someone. The Braavosi will tell you that, and they don't believe in kings. I'd rather be ruled by a lord than be ruled by my fear and the hunger in my belly. My children will be educated, well-fed, and will have every option available to them. I'm happy to be a knight, if only for them." He sighed. "And besides, I'm an old man who's tired of hiding."

Pointy laughed. "Your rosy picture won't survive long, I wager. These noble types gussy themselves up with talk about rights and rules, but they're as full of hate and piss as any Flea Bottom rat."

Davos nodded. "Most of them."

Pointy's smile widened. He opened his mouth to speak, but the words died in his throat as light spread over the plain.

"They're..." Davos blinked stupidly. His eyesight was keen for a man his age but he could hardly believe what he was seeing in the light of the dawn.

"They're moving!" Pointy called out with glee. The Tyrell camp had been parked a short distance from the walls for most of a year. Close enough that watchers on the walls could pick out the faces of the feasting lords of the Reach. Now they were moving. They were moving to fight off attackers! "Stannis needs to know about this!"

By the time they had picked their way down to the yard, the word had already spread. The whole garrison had assembled, and a nervous buzz of talking filled the air. Lean faces split into grotesque smiles. Everyone had something to say. The war had been won, Aerys had yielded, one said. The Reach had joined the rebellion, and would soon be sending peace delegations, another said.

Only one face in the crowd remained grave. Davos saw him, standing above the crowd on a raised platform. His face betrayed no relief or joy, just constant, abjurate determination. His body, however, told a different story. The man was a wreck. Tall as a tree, but as slender as a twig, Stannis looked like a man twice his age. But now, for the first time, Davos noted, the young man was allowing himself to look tired.

"There's another force!" The call came out from the wall. "There's another force approaching! They must have stolen a march in the night! Tens of thousands of them!"

The news of the Tyrell's leaving suddenly did not seem so interesting. The nervous whispers turned to clamorous shouting, everyone demanding to hear more. Dozens of men began the long climb to the top of the curtain wall to get a better look.

"Everyone, form up!" Stannis' voice rang out like a hammer striking steel. The crowd stopped and turned to face him with one accord. "Whoever is out there, we need to be ready. We've had little enough news from the outside these past few months." No ravens had been coming to the besieged castle. Davos had been surprised at this, but it was thought that their allies feared that their messages would be intercepted. Or perhaps ravens had been sent and _had_ been intercepted. Either way, The besieged knew nothing of the outside world.

"I want every man at his post! For all we know, those reinforcements are on the Tyrell's side and they're getting ready to storm this place. This castle hasn't ever fallen and it will not now, not while we're all alive to defend it. You all know your duty and you all know what we do to those who lag about. Get moving!"

Chaos exploded as every man moved to his post. Davos fell in behind Stannis and the other knights as they began the climb to the top of the curtain wall. Stannis barked commands as he walked, sending away knights at every step. "Ser Ryswell, get the horse. Ser Selmy, get a banner guard put together. Ser Tarth..." Soon it was just Davos and Stannis climbing to the top of the wall.

"It's the lions, milord." a guard stated as they came atop the wall. "I mean the Lannisters. They surrounded the Reachmen in the night and the Tyrells are trying to cut free, but I don't think they will be for long." The guard smiled viciously. "The Westerland force outnumbers them heavily."

The wall was forty feet thick on the landward side and a hundred feet high. The whole battlefield spread out before them like a map on a table, each of the armies little more than colored blocks. The screams of the dying were little more than whispers from this distance. How many children were being made fatherless today? Might his own boy be one of those knights down below in ten years time?

The Lannister force did not really outnumber their opponents. At least, they had not when the fighting had first started. But the Tyrell force had been spread out across the whole neck of the penninsula secure and unprepared for this fight. How had so great a host sneaked up upon the Tyrells? It seemed very strange, but clearly something of the kind had happened. Men were fleeing the battlefield in terror and confusion.

Soon enough, the fighting stopped. The Reachmen's position had been impossible from the start. A small group of knights broke away from the main host at the last minute, trying to escape around the edge of the Lannister host, but they were too slow and then the battle was all over. The white flag of truce went up and a great cheer sounded out along the wall.

Meager provisions were brought up to them as they looked on. Prisoners were sent from the Reachmen to the Westermen. The wind whipped and howled and Master Cressen came to join them. Finally, a delegation from the Lannister host approached the castle. Twenty knights, at least, but from this height the delegation looked like nothing more than a crawling caterpillar.

As they grew closer, Davos could make out prisoners in their midst. He recognized them. Mace Tyrell and Paxter Redwyne and half a dozen other great names of the Reach. The rider at the front wore golden armor that twinkled in the noonday sun, and presently he halted, holding up his hand in a sign of peace.

A page dismounted and ran forward calling out, "Lord Tywin Lannister, Lord Paramount of the Westerlands and Warden of the west, would treat with His Grace King Stannis Baratheon, First of His Name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm."

Silence reigned upon the wall, as every man looked to his neighbor. Davos felt more than one set of eyes turn to him and he could only frown. He had more recent experience with the outside world than any of his neighbors, but he had heard nothing of this. Stannis, a king? Robert must have declared himself king and then died, there was no other explanation for it. The man was nearly a boy still, and now he was expected to rule all of the Seven Kingdoms?

Stannis furiously ground his teeth and after a moment, spoke with a voice as harsh as a raven. "Lord Lannister! I am in your debt. We have been under siege for nearly a whole year. The ravens do not fly to Storm's End as of late, and so I must ask you: What is the state of the Seven Kingdoms?"

The golden knight removed his helmet and prodded his horse forward. Davos had no idea what Tywin Lannister looked like, but from the deference the other knights were showing him it was clear that this was the Lord Paramount himself. "Your brother declared himself king at Riverrun." Tywin's voice was as joyful as the grave. "He made battle against Rhaegar Targaryen, and defeated him in single combat in the waters of the Trident. Unfortunately, he died of his wounds thereafter, and so his title falls to you, your Grace."

Stannis' jaw flexed uncomfortably and he was quiet again for moment. "It seems there is much of which we need to speak." He finally stated. "Open the gates, men, and bring bread and salt for Lord Tywin."

For the first time in a year, the gates of Storm's End shuddered open. Stannis turned on his heel to make for the stairs, and for the briefest of moments Davos' eyes met Stannis'. The young man's eyes were burning with rage, anger at everything and everyone. Davos did not like the thought that a young man would bear so much anger. He liked the idea of a king bearing such anger even less.

The King took the stairs by storm. The man was as starved and rail-thin as anyone in the castle, but he moved with furious energy. Davos stumbled after him as best he could, but when he made it to the bottom, the Lords were already speaking with the King. Tywin had been kneeling, seemingly, and now stood alongside his bannermen in front of Stannis.

Stannis was in the middle of a speech, pacing back and forth as his eyes bored into Tywin's forehead. "...is the first military action that the Westerlands have taken in this entire conflict?" Stannis stated bluntly. "I am fortunate that you have finally chosen sides."

If Tywin took insult, he did not show it. He returned Stannis' glare with a dull stare of his own. "The decision to join with your cause was not an easy one. I had responsibilities to the realm, to my king, and to my family. But lest you doubt that I am committed to your dynasty, know that it was my own son who cut the Mad King down. Moreover…" He raised his hand in a signal. "Clegane, bring forward the prisoners."

Knights came forward, pushing the prisoners in front of them. Mace Tyrell, Randyll Tarly, Paxter Redwyne, Baelor Hightower, and half a dozen others that Davos couldn't name. All powerful Lords of the Reach, although they hardly looked the part. Bruised, dirtied, and stripped of their armor, the Lords of the Reach looked more like a shoddy band of sellswords than anything else. Mace Tyrell was pushed to the front and forced to kneel. One of Tywin's knights, an impossibly huge man, unsheathed a massive greatsword and held it ready.

"This man is a traitor to your brother's rule who fought for the Mad King and sought to kill you and your brother. I have taken him and these others captive, that you might cast your judgement upon them. If your order is execution, Ser Clegane will carry it out immediately." Tywin's voice continued in a lower tone.

Davos winced at this proclamation. However the lines had fallen, the Tyrells had behaved honorably in the war. When Aerys had called, they had answered, and unlike the Dornish they had not been coerced. In any case, execution was a frightfully harsh punishment for a Lord Paramount, even under the circumstances. Davos was no scholar, but he knew that the vast majority of the nobles who had declared for the Blackfyres in that rebellion had been allowed to keep their heads and most of their lands. Did Mace truly deserve death?

Stannis said nothing for a moment, his jaw clenching and unclenching as though he were having a whole conversation within himself. Mace Tyrell took advantage of the silence to blubber out: "Your Grace, it is true. It is all true. I fought against you; I did everything in my power to take Storm's End from you. That was the command of my liege. I had not even heard that he had died, I- I merely obeyed, Your Grace. I- I swore an-" The massive knight delivered a kick to Mace's side and the lord yelped in pain, earning a cruel laugh from the assembled garrison.

"You are on trial, Mace, and you will speak when the King tells you to speak." Tywin's voice stated firmly. The men were still smiling from the kick Mace had gotten. They had run out of rats to eat the week before Davos had arrived, and even in the past few month it had been nothing more than onions and turnips, carefully rationed. Sieges were inherently grueling affairs, but Mace had gone to extra lengths to make the experience unbearable, with his feasting, his constant patronizing offers of reward for anyone who opened the gates… Davos suspected that the whole garrison would have been chanting for Mace's head if Stannis hadn't been there. For now all eyes were on the king.

"What should I care, if he speaks or not?" Stannis ground out. "You think I don't know where we both stand? This siege has nearly been a year in length. Every day of this last year, I woke up and saw this fat face taunt me while all around me the faces of good men grew paler and thinner. Every day, I stood on the walls for _hours_ and watched him gorge himself." Stannis rounded on Mace, who visibly flinched. "I had to _starve_ my own brother. Do you understand that? A boy of barely six and I had to feed him rats and bootstraps and explain to him over and over why he couldn't fill his belly. I think we're both perfectly aware of the situation."

Both Mace and Tywin moved to interject, but Stannis' voice had reached a dull crescendo. "Lord Mace, every day I have hated you and envied you and wished that you would die. And now I am to stand in judgement over you, and by all the old gods and new I do not wish to show you mercy. But what am I to stand in judgement for? What crimes are you guilty of? What charges are brought against you? That you served your king? That you laid siege to his enemies?" Stannis scowled."I may hate you, Mace, but I cannot fault you. Bend the knee to me now, serve me and my descendants as faithfully as you served Aerys, and you may return to Highgarden with all your titles and lands intact."

The massive knight put away his greatsword and Mace scrambled to rise to his knee but the knight laid a heavy gauntlet on his shoulder. Tywin's ringing baritone drowned out Mace's protests. "Your Grace, tread carefully. You are king of the realm, but your realm is not yet secure. Loyalty is of the utmost importance. Rhaegar's younger brother has fled to Dragonstone and it is possible that he will yet raise forces against you. The Reach is one of the largest of the Seven Kingdoms, and should not be trusted to a Targaryen loyalist without careful consideration."

"And executing a Lord Paramount of the Seven Kingdoms without a trial does not require careful consideration?" Stannis growled. "Or have you forgotten how this whole war started?"

"Wars have consequences." Tywin stated quietly. Davos noted a few furtive nods throughout the assembled garrison.

"Meaning that you expect a reward for picking the right side? Your loyalty is appreciated, Lord Tywin, and will be acknowledged. Lord Tyrell's loyalty will be bought with hostages and marriages and threats." Stannis let out a gust of air through his nostrils. "Enough. Mace will swear fealty to me now. He and the rest of the Reach lords will accompany us to King's Landing. We will decide upon everything there."

As Mace and Stannis and the assembled Lords of the Reach exchanged the sacred vows of Lord and Bannerman, Davos looked on with worry. He did not understand the way of Lords, but he could sense that this meeting had gone poorly. At least Stannis said the words of fealty right.


	4. Chapter 3: A Northman Goes South

His scouts saw them coming half a day's march off.

Ned's army marched South, all weary but with light hearts. Stormlander holdings they passed bore them news from abroad, and most of the news was good. King's Landing had been taken without issue. Aerys was dead, killed by his own Kingsguard. Tywin had fought and defeated the Tyrells for them. Communication to Storm's End had finally opened up and both Stannis and Renly had been confirmed to be among the living. Ned had sent the greater part of his host back to King's Landing under the leadership of Galbart Glover.

Many of the stormlords they had passed had sent envoys to accompany them, eager to be the first of their peers to swear fealty to their new King and Lord. Some of them had declared for Robert in the war, some had declared for Rhaegar, but now both of those men were dead and the war had all but ended. Ned hoped that Stannis was getting good advice about who to trust. Ned hoped that Tywin could be trusted.

In any case, they would have an answer to that question soon enough. Lord Tywin and the King were just a bit farther up the Kingsroad, heading back towards King's Landing.

The two armies met at midday, and Ned rode up to meet them accompanied by Howland Reed, Roose Bolton, Lyn Corbray, Greatjon Umber, and a dozen other lords and knights. Keeping the stormlanders away from the meeting had been a delicate business, but necessary. There were enough moving parts to this meeting already without a dozen eager stormlords confusing things. The delegation from the Lannister host featured Stannis, a ragtag assemblage of what knights he had, Lord Tywin, and several of his most prominent bannermen. Mace Tyrell and a few other Lords of the reach rode behind, dishevelled, bruised, but still proud.

Stannis was a wreck of a man. Gaunt and tall, he wavered upon his horse like a great sail in the wind. The man who had become King. But what sort of man? The king's brow was tight and lined like a man twice his age. His mouth was frozen as a scowl. Robert had possessed a gift for making friends from enemies. Would Stannis be able to build upon is brother's work?

By contrast, Tywin looked as though they had come upon him partway through a refreshing trip by the sea. Polished armor, trimmed beard, and a stern but approachable face… if appearances made a king, Tywin would have been twice as royal as his dour companion. But that was to be expected, considering their service. Not everyone had fought the same war, Ned thought glumly.

"Lord Eddard Stark." Stannis' voice rang out harshly before they had even stopped riding. "Your rescue appears to have been somewhat late."

"Indeed, your Grace." Ned stated. He had been ready to immediately dismount and take the knee, but Stannis had to be allowed to determine the flow of the conversation. "We came as quickly as we could, but I am grateful that our haste was needless." He nodded slightly to Lord Tywin before turning back to the King. "Your kingdom is secure, my Lord. The Vale, the North, and the Riverlands have all declared for you, King's Landing is open to you, and all of Rhaegar's family has been accounted for."

"I am aware." Stannis stated. "The ravens have flown to me as well. And what of Lyanna, your sister?"

Ned did not reply for a moment. He looked first to Lord Umber, and then to Lord Tywin in confusion. "I have heard nothing of her." He replied. "They say that Rhaegar took her South, to Dorne, but I..." He faltered. "Truthfully I do not know whether she lives or dies. I half expected Rhaegar to try and use her as a hostage."

Stannis nodded. "Lord Lannister has been speaking much of marriage arrangements. Nothing has been decided yet, however, there is still an agreement standing between Stark and Baratheon."

"Your Grace..." Ned frowned. "That marriage agreement was between my father and yours. You are not your brother, and my sister..." His sister had hated Robert, and even if she was alive Lyanna would hardly be a strong candidate for Stannis' consort. "My sister's state is yet in doubt."

"Yes, well..." Stannis' face contorted in a rictus of annoyance. "It falls to me to fulfill Robert's responsibilities, and I intend to follow through on all of the duty I have inherited." Ned suppressed a frown. Was that how Stannis viewed the crown? An annoying responsibility left to him by his elder brother?

"Another matter to address at King's Landing." Tywin interjected. "My knights have yet to find her..." Ned felt his heartbeat quicken. "...and so the matter is moot."

"I would be interested in leading a search of my own," Ned stated hurriedly. "She is of great importance to me personally..." Father, brother, and Robert too, they were all gone now. If she was alive, if she could be saved...

Tywin's frown deepened. "You are a Lord of the Seven Kingdoms. There are more important things for you to be doing."

"Lord Eddard has a duty at King's Landing." Stannis growled, and Ned was not certain who it was that Stannis was growling at. "He has a duty to his sister. A duty to me. We are, all of us, overflowing with duty. " Stannis turned to Ned. "Why should this duty be so paramount to you?"

"Your grace, I was one of the first to declare for your brother. You have my support unquestioningly. I shall swear fealty to you here and now, and after that there will be no need for me at King's Landing." He paused. A great many discussions of import would be had there. In truth he would be loathe to miss those meetings, and yet... "The North does not concern itself with Southern affairs, except as they relate to your Grace; I have no concessions to ask for and in all matters of advice or appointments, I defer to Lord Jon Arryn of the Eyrie, whose wisdom I should rely upon in any case. Meanwhile, while the match between you and Lyanna should likely not occur even if she lives, the Lady is the last remaining member of my family. I would do everything in my power to see her safely returned."

"Do you suggest that my efforts are insufficient?" Tywin raised an eyebrow.

Ned frowned. Other take the man and his posturing. His father, his brother, Robert and perhaps Lyanna too. All gone and all anyone wanted to do was argue and politic. "I am sure that your men are capable." Ned managed. "However, I have with me Howland Reed, one of the greatest trackers in the seven kingdoms, and besides that we Northerners are more used to travelling quickly over long distances. Our efforts will be no meager contribution."

Stannis scowled. "Then go. This whole bloody war started with her, we might as well find out what happened to her."


	5. Chapter 4: Seeing Red

Grandmaester Pycelle cleared his throat. "As you know, the Maesters serve the lords of the land, but we do not partake in… political endeavors. I served Aerys, but I will serve you just as faithfully as I served him. I have no oath to make to you, King Stannis, except as a humble Maester of the citadel might. My knowledge, my skill with ravencraft, the potions and poisons and whatever else I possess is at your disposal."

Stannis nodded. "Your service is commended. Rise." The Grandmaester had been just another in the hundreds of men who had come before Stannis to kneel. The king had scarcely moved from the Iron Throne since a few hours after he first arrived. Lord Arryn had been in and out all day, seemingly more than happy to let Stannis take over the drudgery of running that aspect of the kingdom. Tywin had been busy with ordering his troops, sending some home and sending others to occupy strategic locations in the Crownlands. Mace Tyrell had taken up residence in a house in the city and had been tasked with bringing food up the Gold Road to King's Landing. Everyone of importance had been given a task. Davos had been given none, and so he waited by the King's side until such time as he would be given a task.

Lord Arryn entered the door, and Stannis acknowledged that he might come forward. "Men must make their oaths at another time," Stannis stated to a courtier. "I have other duties to attend to. Everyone except Lord Arryn, leave. Lord Lannister should be here soon enough. Let him in when he comes." Davos and the other Stormlander knights made for the door, but Stannis bade them stay with his hand. "I have no Kingsguard. You men were loyal through the siege, you'll serve as my guard for now."

Davos wondered what Stannis expected him to be able to do in the event of a fight breaking out. Or maybe the man merely wanted to have some familiar faces in the room.

As Lord Arryn came forward, Davos got his first look at the man who had organized Robert's Rebellion. The age of the man was what most surprised Davos. He had known that Lord Arryn was old, but in hearing of the conquests the Lord had made, he had pictured a more vital, agile man. Arryn was ugly, missing most of his teeth and balding heavily. His armor was plain and practical, and his pace was slow. Still, he seemed more at ease in the throne room than anyone else Davos had seen so far. He bowed gingerly before the iron throne.

Stannis loomed over him, a giant of a man on a giant throne, deepset eyes glaring out from underneath a tortured brow. "I trust that all is well in the city?"

Arryn cleared his throat. "Indeed, Your Grace. All your brother's enemies in the Crownlands are swiftly becoming your friends. Those who resist will be persuaded soon enough, by words or by swords, whichever is called for." He paused. "However, as you know, the kingdom is in disarray, It may prove difficult at the current juncture to gather all the Lords of the Seven Kingdoms."

"Yes, yes, I know. Stark said that he would support whatever you said, Tully is indisposed with a wound, and the loyalty of the Tyrells and the Martells is still uncertain. I've sent for Lannister. You, he, and I will have to be sufficient."

"Very good," Arryn stated calmly. "Is there anything with which I can help you in the meantime, your Grace?"

Stannis sighed. "Well, I can offer you the position of Hand now, I suppose. That, at least, is not something that I intend to get Tywin's input on."

Arryn bowed deeply. "I am honored."

"You are needed." Stannis stated. "I do not have any particular affection for you, as my brother did, but the alliance that holds this realm together is your doing, not mine. Tywin is the only other with the inclination for the job, and he is a latecomer to the rebellion who seeks his own good before the realm."

"I obviously do not disagree with your decision. However, if I may be frank, your Grace?"

"What good is a Hand that can't trust his King with criticism?"

"Tywin Lannister is a man of unlimited ambition, and you are right to be cautious of that. However, we cannot risk alienating him. He is the most powerful of your vassals, and we need his support." Arryn's tone had shifted completely. Where a kindly old man had stood moments ago, now a proud Lord of the seven kingdoms stood.

"We won the rebellion without him."

"Aye, and Aerys lost the rebellion without him. It does us no good if Tywin offers some token gesture of support and solidarity. We need him to run to our aid, not walk. If the Reach rebels again, we need the Westerlands to respond with forty thousand swords."

"His avarice is unlimited, Lord Arryn. Four weeks I rode with his host, and every word I shared with the man was a fencing match; some mean attempt at advancing his own dynasty. He would see himself rewarded more richly than all the other Lords of the Seven kingdoms when of all of them he bled the least."

"Your brother, Eddard, and I started the rebellion to save ourselves, to save the realm, and to see Aerys and Rhaegar brought to justice. Eddard and I have already gotten everything that we wanted from the war. Our armies are yours, but you cannot rule with our support alone. You will be handing out favors to many over the next few days. Do not squander them. Spend them to secure the realm and build goodwill with your vassals. Tywin is only one vassal, but he is a key one."

Stannis' jaw flexed uncomfortably. He was ill-suited to this sort of politicking, Davos could see. All honest men were. "I'm already insisting that you and he both be present for these next discussions. That is more honor than I showed to Hoster Tully."

Arryn smiled warmly again. "That is indeed a start. Now shall we speak of less important things? As to candidates for the position of Master of Laws..."

Tywin Lannister made his entrance within the hour, resplendent in red and gold, his armor plated with a small fortune. He moved with the vibrant energy of a man just past his prime in life, his cold eyes taking in everything at once. He walked to the foot of the Iron Throne and bowed stiffly.

"Your Grace, we have many important matters to discuss. Matters that we have put off for too long. You must name a Hand, you must name a wife, and you must decide the fate of Rhaegar's spawn." Tywin's lip turned up in a grimace. "There's also the small matter of my son, who I visited earlier today in his cell."

Davos swallowed. Even a boy from Flea Bottom could see that each of those decisions would be fraught with peril. To make them all at once, so hurriedly… the next hour could make or break the seven kingdoms. But Davos was not surprised, either. Tywin had been hounding him on the first three points since before they had left Storm's End. Arryn had been less insistent, but he had still brought up all of those issues. The king had pushed them both off, but now it seemed he would have to make a final decision.

"You vastly undersell the litany of tasks set before us." Stannis stated. "That snake Varys has disappeared, and even now may be working against me in secret. We need to organize the siege of Dragonstone as soon as possible, and secure the loyalty of the Dornish. There are a thousand and one disputes between my subjects to settle. The Florents expected to be named as Lords of the Reach and we need to send a delegation to Dorne."

"Perhaps we should start with the easiest of matters," Arryn said with a diplomatic smile. "The Martells have no reason to quarrel with us. While it was regrettable that they sided with Aerys, they could hardly have done otherwise, so long as he held their sister. We hold her now, and if we treat Elia kindly and send a polite, but forceful delegation, there is no reason for them not to bend the knee."

"Other than the fact that they share blood with the dragons, of course." Tywin intoned darkly.

Arryn's eyes closed in annoyance for a moment before nodding. "Much does depend on the fate of those children."

"We need to ensure that these children pose no threat to the future of the realm." Tywin stated. "I know your Grace objects to harsher measures, but we need to consider all of the options."

"Which harsher measures are those?" Stannis growled. "Would you have me arrange for the babes to see a headsman? Or should I place them upon a pike wholesale, for their many deeds of treachery against the realm?"

"Any claimant to the throne not in your line is a direct threat to the realm," Tywin retorted. "We killed their father, we killed their grandfather, but until the whole line is extinguished it is all for naught. You can't foster them away, as you would a bastard, or marry them into your subjects' houses. Their claim to the throne is too strong, and any one who fosters them would have a powerful weapon to use against you or your descendants. You can't send them to the Wall or to the Septa, they're too young for such things and if they didn't voluntarily enter those orders their supporters will still be able to use them. You cannot keep them in the Red Keep, that would practically invite a coup." Tywin paused for effect. "To be a king is to make hard decisions, your Grace, and the children are dangerous. The realm should not endure a second rebellion for the sake of a child's innocence."

Davos shuffled. He could think of no reason that could justify the death of an child, royal or not. These were babes barely off of the teat! But Stannis seemed to be considering the words of Tywin carefully. Davos looked at Stannis, his mind whirling. Could the man consider such a thing? _Fair_ he had called Stannis, surely such a perverse thing would be…

"I can and will stomach anything for the sake of the realm." Stannis stated slowly. "Ten thousand lives for one? An easy decision. I will rule this kingdom rightly even if I have to damn myself to do it." Stannis' lip turned up in a snarl. "But as the king, I do not have that luxury. If I kill these children, I damn not only myself, but all the men sworn to me and all the persons descended from me."

Davos could barely hear Tywin's reply. "There is no reason why you should be blamed for the matter, Your Grace."

Davos looked to the men beside him. If Stannis heeded this council, Davos and all the other knights were now conspirators.

"So what, we blame it on the Spider? That would be enough to to give some doubt." Stannis allowed. "Perhaps enough to stave off open rebellion. But every fool in the Seven Kingdoms would know the truth."

"They would know, too, that you are strong."

"Is this the council you gave to Aerys?"

Arryn coughed. "Since your Grace finds the idea unpalatable, there is another option. The children can be fostered here, in King's Landing. Tywin is right to fear that Targaryen loyalists could try and use them, so we will have to confine them and restrict access to them. Fortunately, the Red Keep has a structure that is designed for this exact purpose. The Maidenvault was constructed to hold the siblings of Baleor the Blessed, and now it will contain Rhaegar's children, and possibly his siblings if they are recovered. They will grow up in luxury, completely detached from the Seven Kingdoms. The Maidenvault has but one entrance and exit, and one knight loyal to you can be locked in with the children at all times, ready to end them in the event of an attempted coup. When they are old enough, they can be sent to the Citadel, the Wall, or the Septs at their own choice. If you have a male heir in a timely manner, Princess Rhaenys could even be married into your family line, to fully cement your dynasty upon the throne. In such an instance your grandchildren would have an even stronger claim to the throne than Viserys would, should escape our grasp."

Davos let out a breath he did not realize that he had been holding, grateful for Arryn's intervention. He caught a glimpse of the old man's eyes, and a moment of understanding passed between them. The falcon had laid a trap for the lion. Tywin and Stannis had been arguing all up the Kingsroad, and Arryn had used that to place himself as the moderate and more agreeable option. Jon Arryn was perhaps a kinder man than Tywin, but he had timed his suggestion with no motivation other than pure cunning. Nonetheless, Davos thanked the Father that no children were to be murdered this day.

Stannis nodded thoughtfully. "They'll be little more than prisoners, but if Baelor confined his sisters there I see no reason why I can't confine these dragonspawn." He looked to Tywin. "Would this satisfy you, Lord Tywin? To hold them in the Maidenvault for the near future?"

Tywin grimaced. "It is dangerous. The Spider is still at large, and there are many besides him who would seek to free them. If at any point in the next decade we fail in vigilance, it could mean ruin for the whole realm."

Arryn raised an eyebrow. "There are advantages as well."

"Yes, yes, we all see that. Anyone seeking to use Viserys will have a hard time of it, if we hold Aegon. It also makes the Dornish more agreeable to us, for however little that is worth."

"It seems we are in agreement then?" Arryn's smiled indulgently. "Shall we speak of marriage, your Grace?"

Tywin moved to speak but Stannis interrupted him. "I believe Tywin's position on the subject is well-known enough. I've heard enough poetry about his daughter's beauty to drown me as thoroughly as the Reynes."

"She is the most eligible available female in the seven kingdoms," Jon Arryn intoned, a hint of exasperation entering his voice. "She should not be disregarded."

"She's a leash to make sure that the Lannisters are tied to the throne." Stannis grumbled.

A moment of silence passed, each of the three men eyeing each other warily. Davos sensed that Stannis had crossed a line, and that the two older men were judging how to redraw the terms of engagement.

Tywin was the man to finally break the silence. "The Targaryens did not marry into the houses of their Lords, unless they had no choice. This made your brother's claim stronger than it ought to have been, and the Targaryens had few alliances to call upon in their time of need. If the realm is to be strong, you must marry well. My house is the most stable, powerful, and loyal of your subjects, and a marriage between us will tie our houses together for generations to come. I wish for my daughter to be queen, true, but that does not make her the wrong choice."

"And what of Lyanna?" Stannis raised an eyebrow. "Cersei could have the Maiden's own beauty, the virtue of Baelor the Blessed, and a host of fire-breathing dragons to go with her, and none of that would change the fact that I am already pledged to Lyanna Stark."

"Agreements can be broken as easily as they are made, your Grace." Tywin stated coolly. "Eddard said that Jon could speak for him, and the betrothal is a matter between him and you, no one else. Jon can free you from the bond your father made and the position becomes moot." Tywin looked to Jon, who nodded in reply. "And there your have it. Unless you have some special affection for the woman?"

Stannis sneared. "Do not confuse me for my brother, Lord Lannister. Robert would fight a war for a woman while whoring his way through every den in the Seven Kingdoms. I have neither such sentiments nor such appetites. Lyanna is no one to me, except a promise that must be kept. With Lord Arryn's blessing, I will marry the Westerlands and consider the matter settled."

"And her brother?" Tywin questioned. "Are you going to marry my daughter and execute my son?"

"I am going to give him a fair trial in the light of the Seven."

Lord Arryn replied before Tywin could. "A good notion, and if you think of it, I am sure you will agree, Lord Tywin. Your son broke his oaths, but…"

"We all broke oaths." Tywin interjected.

"As you say, we all broke oaths." Jon continued. "Aerys' atrocities were incomparable, and your son, sacred though his oaths were, was exposed to the worst of them. It will be good, I think, for everyone to hear how great the extent of those horrors was. It will silence any who hold grudges against your son, as well as reminding everyone why this rebellion was started in the first place."

"An innocent man has nothing to fear from a trial, Lord Lannister." Stannis stated.

Tywin locked eyes with Stannis for a pregnant moment before nodding. "Yes. Of course. I look forward to seeing my son's innocence borne out in a fair trial before the Seven. Now with your Grace's permission, there are things that I must attend to." Stannis nodded and Tywin abruptly left.

"You and he, it seems, will have difficulty getting along." Jon noted, a pained smile playing on his lips.

"Perhaps that is a good omen. The last king who he was friends with did not fare so well."

Jon's lips pursed slightly. "I feel as though we repeat our conversation from earlier."

"I have every intention of being generous with the man, but I will not lie to him. I see his machinations for what they are and will call them as such."

Jon stroked his chin thoughtfully. "Tywin does not see the world the same as you. He sees things in terms of leverage. He sees conversation as warfare, a place where deceit and misdirection are key weapons. He is ruthless and expects others to be the same to him."

Stannis' eyes narrowed. "And what, am I some sweet summer child, too naive for politics?"

"No." Jon's voice was gentle, guiding. "No, you both expect betrayal, the difference is that… Well, he elevates Gregor Clegane, and you elevated Davos Seaworth."

Davos coughed, surprised to hear his own name.

"Seaworth did me a great service."

"Indeed, but you brought him here to King's Landing with you. You let him attend this meeting. In fact, all the men who are standing here with us are survivors of the siege."

"If they were going to betray me, they had plenty of chances."

Jon smiled widely now. "Precisely. You are certain that these are men like you, serious and dutiful, and so you trust them and give them important tasks."

"What, should I give responsibility to untrustworthy briggands?"

"What if a briggand was exactly what you needed? Gregor Clegane, is by all counts the worst sort of person imaginable. But he is also an incredible engine of war, Your Grace, and he gives pause to Tywin's enemies. Tywin could have brought him to heel, but then he would be fighting the Mountain that Rides, instead of having him as a weapon. Tywin relies upon people acting selfishly, and so he picks people who have simple wants."

"And may the Others take him." Stannis retorted. "The realm deserves good men, and not beasts and monsters. If I must use Tywin to keep the realm secure I will, but I will not become him. Or would you have had me kill those children?"

"No." Jon's answer was curt and definite. "Not at this time."


	6. Chapter 5: All Men Must Serve

"Ser Seaworth, The King has sent for you." The royal messenger's eyes darted around uneasily. In the dim light of the setting sun, the street upon which Davos lived must have seemed quite nefarious to the boy. Davos' house was no ramshackle Flea Bottom hovel; it was the house of a humble but prosperous tradesman, but the boy had probably grow up in a grand tower with servants waiting on his every whim. Davos smiled indulgently.

"Tell the King that I will come as quickly as possible." The messenger nodded and mounted his horse to ride towards the capital. Davos closed the door and looked to his wife, sitting in her chair across the room. He had met her when she was scarcely a woman, and he less than a man, and they had been with each other since. She had been pretty enough once, but now she was very plain indeed, their many children having taken a toll upon her. But to him she was still the same girl of sixteen. They had just been sitting down to a cup of fine whiskey when the servant had come. He tilted his head in apology. "Stannis is calling me."

She smiled sadly, but nodded. "The King keeps late hours and so must you."

"Aye." Davos stated. "But I'm only leaving for the Tower of the Hand, dear, not for Braavos. I'll be back before morning." He kissed her on the forehead.

"I will put the children to bed. Wake me when you get back."

"Always." Davos smiled, shrugged into his heavy naval coat and stepped out into the brisk air.

Davos had on occasion said that King's Landing was a cheap whore. Sick, barely washed, and open to anything if the coin was good. Still, she was an old friend, and though the wind brought nothing but foul air, he smiled. It was good to put his boots to the gravel of King's Landing again.

By the time he arrived at the Tower of the Hand, the city had grown dark indeed, and the wind cut away at him as though he were on the crow's nest of a ship. Stannis was in Jon's solar, bent over a table with Jon, discussing something in low tones. There were five others in the room, quietly speaking amidst themselves. Davos recognized Barristan Selmy, the newly-appointed Commander of the Kingsguard, Grandmaester Pycelle, who had sworn to Stannis on the previous day, and Old Lord Eldon Estermont, who had joined them on the way up to King's Landing. The others were strangers. A tall, hard-faced man in a purple cloak stood towards the back, looking at everyone with suspicious eyes. Lord Estermont was speaking quietly with a big-eared man who wore an expensive ermine doublet.

These were all lords, or the sons of lords. To what end had he been called?

"It is good that you have all come promptly," Stannis' harsh voice carried itself over the murmuring conversants. "As some of you know, I have yet to name who will sit upon my Small Council."

Davos' eyes went wide. The Small Council formed the most trusted of the King's advisors. To be included in such a position… He shook his head. He would not protest. No doubt the king knew his business. Still, Davos felt that he was not the only one conscious of the fact that this honor was too heavy for him. He felt the eyes of the the man in the ermine doublet.

"Officially, I will be offering all of these positions tomorrow, but I desire your answers now so that I might offer them to others if you refuse. The roles are as follows: Lord Eldon Estermont, you will serve as my Master of Coin. Ser Imry Florent, you will act as Master of Laws. Ser Davos Seaworth, Master of Whisperers, and Lord Jason Mallister, Master of Ships." Stannis's voice had all the gravity of a man reciting the inventory of a shipment from Ibben. "Grandmaester Pycelle will keep his position. Ser Barristan Selmy has consented to be made Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, and Lord Jon Arryn will be my Hand. What say all you?"

The man in the ermine doublet stepped forward, bowing gallantly and smiling wolfishly. "House Florent is honored to serve, your Grace. I swear that I will bring order and justice to this kingdom, if that is the task for me. Thieves and smugglers will fear my name, and yours."

"I am glad to hear it." Stannis' gladness did not carry into his voice.

The dour knight at the back shouldered forward, dropping to one knee. "For nigh on six hundred years, we Mallisters have defended the Riverlands against pirates, raiders, and enemies of the realm. To now go on the offensive?" Jason Mallister raised his head, eyes glittering. "The seas will know who is King."

The smallest of smiles touched the corner of Stannis' mouth. "You will not lack for work. Your first task will be raising a fleet to take Dragonstone from the Targaryens, and after that, the Stepstones from the pirates, and to bring the Ironborn to heel if they become unruly."

Jason Mallister smiled. "It will be my pleasure."

"Rise, Lord Jason."

Eldon's head bowed only slightly. "I will serve, of course, as long as Your Grace requires." Stannis acknowledged him with a nod. The old man was Stannis' mother's brother. He was not so interested in projecting an image as these others.

All eyes turned to Davos. "Your Grace..." he began, uncertain of what he meant to say. The position would be dangerous beyond words, and he would wield power like he had never imagined. It was too high, too heady for a simple boy from Flea Bottom. How did one come to terms with the idea that they might have a part in running an entire empire? A year ago he had been a simple smuggler; if he took this post, the Sealord of Braavos would know his name. "You honor me greatly, more than I feel I deserve," he managed eventually. "I will serve however you need me."

"I do not honor you." Stannis said quietly. "I curse you. No man in Westeros will love you. You are to be my Whisperer. They called the last man to hold your seat 'The Spider' and he was a villain of the worst description. I need to hunt him, Davos, and for that I need a villain of my own. He will try and kill you, I have no doubt, so do not take this task upon yourself lightly."

Davos' face hardened. Risk and danger were old friends to him. The circumstances changed, but the essence of the job never did. That seemed to be true even now. Still, Stannis' question had been one of ability. Could he match wits with a spymaster who had been a legend even before he came to Westeros? Davos though back to the crunch of the gravel under his boots, the stench in his nostrils as he had walked to the tower. In another city, in another time, perhaps Davos would fear Varys. But the Spider had merely paid to do business with the whore that was King's Landing. Davos had been raised by her.

"I will be whatever my King requires me to be." He bowed deeply and clutched his finger bones about his neck. "I have been a villain before now, so I can be again."

* * *

"Y'know, I was surprised to hear from you. Then I realized that I was rich." Pointy walked a pair of silver stags between his fingers. "Of course all me old friends is coming out of the woodwork now."

"Aye," Said Davos. He got the joke, but as with most of Pointy's humor, it was not particularly funny. "Stannis paid you well."

They had met at the _Leaky Nagel_ , a long low building just outside of the docks where every table was hidden from the view of others, either by supporting beams, walls, or hung draperies. Light, off-key music filled the air and the lighting was poor. Davos supposed that some honest sailors frequented the establishment, but he had never met any. Then again, the difference between a sailor and a pirate was rarely more than two weeks of rum rations.

Pointy huffed. "The pay could be better. Comparing it with what you got it's nothin. But normally you have to serve ten namedays with the Stormguard afore they give you your stag, and he gave everyone from the siege at least double that. I've been thinking about how I'm gonna spend mine. Maybe get a high-class prostitute! Or a set of quality rings."

"See if you can buy yourself a quartermaster's position on a ship," Davos suggested helpfully. "It's the same job you do already, but the pay is better, and once you have a successful voyage under your belt, you won't lack for work"

"Feck that." Pointy smiled. "If the Seven had meant for me to be on the sea, I'd have gills like a Sisterman."

"What are you doing then, working for Roony again?"

"Sure. Simple work, simple pay, but for now it keeps my belly full. And Roony pays on time, you know?"

Davos did know. Red Jon Roony had been running his shop in Flea Bottom since Davos was a boy, and the man had a reputation for being equal parts fierce and fair. He was an evil man, but the sort to whom you could trust your life. In a job like smuggling, trust was better than gold, half the time, and Roony had been one of the rich ones.

"I want to talk to Roony."

A massive, ear-to-ear smile split Pointy's face. "Oh, oh! I knew it! See if I didn't tell you!" Pointy leaned in, his face hungry. "What game are you playing?"

"Our King has given me work." Davos stated, folding his hands. "I'm to look for some things he's misplaced."

"You're taking over the Spider's work." Pointy breathed. Most figures of the Red Keep were not of much interest to the smugglers of King's Landing. But every man knew of the Spider. "You're the King's new bloody Spider!"

Davos smiled, reached into his pouch, and placed a gold dragon on the table. Pointy's eyes practically fell out of his head. "That's gold, Davos. Is that..."

"It's for Roony. I need people I can trust, and Roony is a sound man. If he or one of his folks hears something that interests me, well…" Davos tapped the dragon with the index finger of his good hand. "I know where to get more of these."

"You know that Roony won't tell you shit about his clients, yeah?"

"He can tell me who is trying to hire him. He can tell me who's trying to hire his suppliers. And I can pay better than they can."

Pointy nodded hungrily. "And if an honest tradesman like myself hears something?"

Davos chuckled. "You want to cut Roony out of profit while you're working with him? But no. I'm only dealing with people at the top. Individual street runners like yourself is too much for me to manage. The gold is to keep Roony quiet, and to keep him loyal. Nobody else needs to know he's on the take from me. Anybody shows up asking for information on me, I'll double their price. Anybody starts hearing stuff I told Roony, or Roony's information starts coming up bad? I stop doing business with him. If I know he's a rat? Then I talk to the Master of Laws about finding work for the 'cloaks."

Pointy swallowed. "What about-" his sentence was cut off as Davos plunked a stack of five stags onto the table.

"The stags are for you. I need someone telling me who Roony is talking to, or if there's anything funny going on." Davos spread his hands. "Just in case, you know. I trust Roony, but somebody could get to him."

Pointy's hand darted out and snagged the coins, biting one of them and then smiling with the silver still between his teeth. "Seems fair, yeah?"

Davos smiled. "It'll be a pleasure doing business with you." Pointy was a rat, Davos knew, but he needed a rat in Roony's organization. Roony was as sound as they came, but even sound men could break under pressure. There was a good chance Pointy would turn out to be useless, but for five stags, Davos could afford him. That was a strange thought, that he could afford five stags. His first boat had cost less than that.

A meditative look came over Pointy's features. "You're rolling big now, aren't you? You're not just paying me and Roony, you'll be looking into all the other bosses. Lom and Skarit and the Maid Massey an all them. Gor! You're a proper big boss criminal!"

Davos said nothing. He was also hitting up Missy Carts, the washerwoman who worked the Street of Silk, Barkeep Lon Loon, who had been friends with his wife's sister, Dirty Tom, an infamously corrupt taxman, Tingely, a Madame whose house catered to teamsters, and many, many others. He would have a thousand eyes if he had one, and a ear in every den. Outside of King's Landing things would be harder, but he knew people in every port in Westeros. Sitting at this table with Pointy, it was not hard to imagine that he was paying the man for news about changing tarrifs in White Harbor.

Davos smiled. The stakes changed, but the game never did.


	7. Chapter 6: Break and Keep

The tower was unimpressive by any standard.

A lonely turret positioned in the Prince's Pass, unadorned and to all appearances abandoned. Perhaps the Dornish had set it up to watch for Targaryen invasion, once, or perhaps some minor knight had vacated it for better holdings. Either way, there were hundreds of towers like it in these mountains. Nothing attached any significance to this one.

Except that Howland Reed had assured Ned that the tower held his sister, Lyanna.

The remoteness of the tower reassured Ned in many ways. He had encountered several of Tywin's knights in his search for Lyanna, and none of them had been looking for a place like this. He did not know what purposes Tywin had in looking for Lyanna, but Ned could not trust them with this. Not with his sister. He had run into one of them, an Amory Lorch. Ned had executed bandits more savory than that man. If this tower was so remote… perhaps no one had found her yet. Or perhaps this tower was but a dead end.

But Howland Reed had assured him that his sister was here, and that she was alive.

Every step Ned made brought him closer. Last year Ned had four living family members, and a friend he called brother. Now he had two. One was back home, and another was in this tower. Lyanna, who he had given up for lost, was alive. Alive, and imprisoned. Perhaps not quite well. Ned patted the side of his horse's neck. They had to hurry. He was grateful that his mission to rescue Stannis had brought him south so quickly; another month may have been too late. Another month and he might only be bringing back a corpse.

Howland Reed, Wiliam Dustin, Martyn Cassel, Ethan Glover, Theo Wull, and Mark Ryswell rode with him. All stout men who had fought loyally in the war, along with a score of loyal Northmen levies. Ned would have preferred to have an army with him, but the mountains of Dorne ate armies alive, and a large force could not move quickly here in any case.

They had come now to a narrow, winding path up the side of a mountain. It was the only approach to the tower, and Ned felt his eyes climbing towards it, expecting arrows or boiling oil or even wildfyre. He shuddered involuntarily, seeing a still-fresh corpse stuck on a rock just below them.

Theo Wull noticed his discomfort and chuckled. "It's a good sign, Lord Ned."

They came to a ramshackle stable of sorts, past which the path became narrow and even more uneven. Great heavy warhorses like the ones they were riding would not be safe to ride further. They stood a dozen feet below the base of the tower, and sixty feet of winding road. Dry gravel crunched under their feet as they dismounted.

"Damned desolate place!" Ethan exclaimed. "And no sign of the enemy!"

Willam winced. "What, are you inviting them to ambush us? This whole trip has always been cursed, there's no reason to make it worse."

"Still," Theo added. "It's mighty strange that we have not seen anything of them, beyond that corpse back there."

"There are fresh hoofprints all around." Ned stated quietly. "They've been busy here."

Willam nodded. "Theo Wull is too much a Northman to track in this dusty gravel."

Theo Wull laughed. His people were from the extreme northern end of the world, just south of the Gift. "Ha! Then we'd best be glad that you're here! The Crannogman and young Lord Stark are half southern, so I suppose we should be thankful for them as well."

"Well, either way, we'll see them soon enough." Ethan smiled infectiously. "Shall I lead the charge, milord?"

"Howland?" Ned questioned.

The tiny little man fiddled with a charm about his neck. "They're on the path just ahead, at the narrowest point. They're waiting there, two abreast, just beneath the tower."

"Knights?"

Howland frowned. "I think so. They have armor, I can hear it even over all of you lot."

Ned grimaced. He could see the path in his mind's eye. The knights, whoever they were, had chosen their position expertly. They were just around a small corner, right near to the wall. The levies would get slaughtered trying to approach that position, and using a crossbow properly at that distance would be impossible. If either group had pikes, they would have the advantage, but Ned and his party had not brought that weapon with them. He sighed. Death. Always more death. "Right then. I will lead the way."

Martyn Cassel shouldered his way in front of him. "Begging your pardon, milord, but no you won't. Neither you nor any of these great lords. There's no sense in wasting the blood of the men, but my blood comes cheaper than yours."

Theo stepped in beside him. "Aye, and I'm but a Wull who's half wildling." He laughed. "Besides, I rather like the idea of a Wull being buried here, nearly at the ass-end of the world."

Ethan laughed. "Want all the glory for yourself, eh?" He turned to Mark Ryswell. "Fight me for who gets the higher spot?"

"No." Mark's face was tight with focus.

Ned sighed. "Lead on, Martyn."

They saw the Kingsguard when they rounded the bend. Three of them, white cloaks flowing in the mountain breeze. Ned had known that at least one of the kingsguard would be here, but all three? Rhaegar would have been better served had he brought these men with him to the Trident, Ned thought glumly. Their faces were grim, and they had swords drawn already.

"Eddard Stark, I presume?" the knight in the back spoke, his voice old, but still filled with thunderous power. "Jon Arryn always spoke highly of you."

"Gerold Hightower." Ned replied. "Since when do the Kingsguard keep girls locked in towers like a group of common brigands?"

"The Kingsguard is whatever the king orders it to be."

"That king is dead. Stannis Baratheon is king."

Gerold Hightower shrugged. "I swore no oath to him. You-"

He was interrupted by a scream from above. "Hightower, for once in your life, do a good thing and _let my brother through._ " Ned felt his heart drop in his chest. It was Lyanna's voice, wet with tears and anguish. Ned could see the window from which Lyanna's voice came, but he could not see her in it. Had they tied her down? Had they…

He frowned, dark anger building up behind his eyes as he turned back to the kingsguard. "I cannot turn aside."

"And neither can we." Gerold's voice was cold, aloof.

"By the old gods' horny roots," Theo's voice crowed out. "It must be true, you Southerners do bleed shite. Did yer king tell you to rape the maid too, to get her all warmed up for 'im? Would it be a sign of yer honor, because it was done for your prince?"

Gerold's lip curled back in a snarl. "Hold your tongue, cur, you know nothing of duty."

"In your hands it's a cup of ass-piss." Theo spat on the ground.

"Honor is the only thing that separates us from the beasts, _ser_ ," That was Ser Arthur Dayne, standing in the front. His words were strong, but his voice lacked Gerold's conviction. Ned had known Arthur. The Daynes and the Starks had met at Harenhall, the greatest families of the First Men in the North and in the South. Brandon had kept up an affair with Arthur's sister for some time.

Ned's voice sounded strange to him, distant. "Arthur Dayne, what I would not give for a man of half your quality, in service to a lord with an ounce more wisdom than Rhaegar. You stood by while my father burned. You stood by while my brother, your friend, strangled himself. You have stood by as my sister was raped again and again and you call this honor? What honor does Rhaegar deserve, who nearly destroyed this kingdom with his wanton passion? Let me go in and hold my sister. Let me comfort her."

"We swore oaths, Lord Stark." Oswell Whent spoke for the first time.

"Swear new ones." Ned pleaded. "Swear them to a good man this time. Bend the knee."

"We are the Kingsguard. Our knees do not bend so easily."

Ned sighed. "Then you shall die."

"I know that. I welcome it." Arthur's voice had gained an undercurrent of sadness. "I wish that I could be otherwise, Ned, but I am of the light. To serve is my nature."

Lyanna screamed again. "No! Gods no! Have some sense, you fools!" Ned's vision grew narrow and dark, but he felt a great calmness settle upon him. Cold filled his chest, made him feel lighter than air.

"Kill them." He stated simply. "Kill them all. Let the last vestige of Rhaegar's madness be washed away."

Martyn and Theo rushed up the incline, swords drawn with the rest of Ned's companions charging up behind him. The wall of the tower was on one side of them, a tottering cliff on the other. Martyn fell first, locking blades with Arthur only once before Dawn flicked out as fast as light and severed the good man's head from his shoulders. Ethan Glover stepped over the man's falling corpse and sent out strike after strike, exchanging blows carefully, warily keeping his distance with the knowledge of a practiced duelist.

Theo had simply laughed and charged forward, taking a savage blow to his shield-arm as he ploughed into Oswell Went. The Kingsguard was pushed back a few feet, but drew a dagger in his other hand and thrust it up into the big Northerner's belly.

Theo just smiled, dropping his sword and grappling the other knight with his mailed fists. Oswell rammed his dagger into Theo's side over and over. Moment my moment as they grappled, it was clear the big man's strength was falling. "Cunt." Theo hissed, his teeth clenched in a smile, and then he pulled them both off the side of the mountain.

Ethan's sword went flying, and Dawn came crashing down, splitting Ethan's cocky smile in two. Ned stepped up to face Dayne, locking the Valyrian steel of Ice when the starmetal edge of Dawn. Their blades parted and crashed together again, blue sparks flying out at each exchanged. Ned had trained with the best swordsmen of the Vale, exchanged blows with Robert Baratheon, and even bested his brother Brandon from time to time. Even so, he was barely holding his own. Lyanna, Lyanna, Lyanna… He had to save her. He and Lyanna would not join Robert and Father and Brother. Not yet. Ned felt a savage ferocity within his chest that he had not experienced before. A fierce and angry pride, a certainty that he would not die here. His blows redoubled in force, and the Knight of Starfall yielded a single step.

Arthur answered Ned with a stunning series of maneuvers, forcing him on the back foot. "You have the wolf in you after all." The knight smiled sadly. "So now it truly begins."

"No, now it ends," Ned replied back, nearly quiet.

Arthur Dayne flowed forward, his sword seeming to ripple as he struck out with terrific force. Ned parried, but his arms screamed in pain even as he diverted the blow. Another blow came, faster than seemed possible, and Ned parried again. The cold in his chest flared and he scarcely felt the pain anymore. Even so, he could not give ground quickly enough. Every movement of Dayne's was perfection, fluid and deadly. Four strikes, five, six… Ned felt Ice fall from his hands and he knew that the seventh strike would end him. He saw the white starmetal blade flying toward his face.

The blade fell, clattering amidst the rock like dropped cutlery. Arthur stood, transfixed a moment, his eyes rolled back into his head, and then Arthur fell in a great heap, his white cloak flitting about him in the wind.

Ned swallowed. William Dustin was standing over Hightower, breathing heavily, a dented brass pot sitting on the ground a few feet away. Mark Ryswell was bleeding upon the ground in front of Ned. The man managed a weak smile. "For Lyanna, eh?" He whispered, and then he said no more for a while. Howland Reed walked up to Ned, his feet stumbling underneath him. The tiny man had done something, Ned knew. Arthur Dayne had not died of any natural cause. Whatever it was, Howland was not feeling well, leaning on Ned for support. No, Ned would let the strange man keep his secrets.

"Well, all things considered, that went better than I thought." William Dustin stated. Ned put a hand on his shoulder.

"Men, if anyone is alive, keep them that way. I'm going up to see my sister."

Ned walked up the last few steps to the door of the tower. There was no bar preventing entrance, and he walked through it and up the stairs as quickly as he could. He startled a female servant but brushed her aside. The rooms he passed were simple, crude dwellings. A room for grain, a cell for sleeping. A kitchen of sorts… The kingsguard had been living rough here. Lyanna had been living rough.

Finally, there at the top. A door, barred from the outside. Ned disbarred the door and was nearly immediately embraced as the door flew open.

"Lyanna," He breathed. He had not seen his sister in over a year. She had been but five and ten when she left, a beautiful, wild girl just barely a woman. She seemed scarcely older now, except for... "Oh, my dear Lyanna." And then he cried. His little sister was with child. Rhaegar's child. She cried with him a while.

"I always hoped you would come." Lyanna said, her voice thick with tears. "I always hoped, but then, when you were here… All I wanted was for you to go away, to be safe."

"We're both safe now."

"They… they did not tell me much. I know that Father and Brandon are gone. I know that… Rhaegar and Robert are gone too."

"Many died in the rebellion." Ned sighed. "Many good men."

"Rhaegar was not a good man." Lyanna hissed, breaking apart and sitting down, as though very tired. "Father and Brandon and Robert were all good men in their own ways, but Rhaegar was a beast."

Ned sat down with her. "Aye, he was nearly as mad as his father, in his own way. You-"

"I thought Robert was the monster!" she burst out, her face full of rage. "I hated him for his whoring ways, and then I ran off with a married man!"

Ned's blood ran cold. "You were willing?"

"Why should he have needed to kidnap me? You know what words I shared with father, and with you, about the match with Robert."

He did know. She had cried then too, and screamed, and spent a whole night out riding. Ned clenched his teeth and swallowed the bile that rose in his throat. "Lyanna..."

She looked down. "Say it. I know it." She wept bitterly. "You were right. All of you were right. At first, I laughed to think of the 'duty' you had laid out for me, thinking what a fine trick I had played, getting such a better match than any Baratheon Lord. Laughing at how free I was, the Lady that chose her prince." She spat. "He locked me away in a tower. The Tower of Joy, he called this place, and so it was for a few months, but then I asked to leave, and he would not let me. Then I asked him to let me be for a night, and he would not." Her voice had become dull, angry. "I mocked duty and chased after freedom and I was locked in a tower and raped until I was got with child, then he discarded me like a spent candle."

Foolish, foolish Lyanna. It was impossible to think, after these dark days had passed, that anyone had been so naive. "You were a foolish girl, but..."

"But what?" Lyanna laughed, tears shining on her cheeks. "I've all but ruined our family. The realm has faced one civil war and may face another shortly. That blood-"

"-Is on the hands of Aerys and Rhaegar. A girl of five and ten may make a mistake, but Rhaegar was a married man of twice your age, and he knew what he was doing. Aerys was the one who burned father and brother alive. That was not you."

She dried her tears with a piece of cloth. "Rhaegar would have had me one way or another. I know that much." She sighed, and then began crying again. "What is to become of us, Ned?"

"I don't know." Ned said honestly. "Stannis, Robert's brother is king. He is a..." an image of the man's frowning face flashed before his eyes. "He is a hard man, but fair."

She laughed. "Am I to marry him, then?"

"No." Ned's voice was firm. "I would not put you through that, not after..."

"I could have born it," she stated. "I can bear anything, now. We both know I deserve worse."

Ned swallowed. "Stannis will marry Cersei Lannister. For the security of the realm, that is the best. You will return to the North with me-"

"And what about my baby, Ned?" Ned's eyes flew up to Lyanna's. Us. She had asked what would become of _us_. Her and the baby. Her and the Targaryen bastard. "What will become of my child?"


	8. Chapter 7: The King's Justice

Davos found him in the training yard, fighting two of Jon's finest knights.

Jaime Lannister sidestepped a lunge from one knight and caught the other with his riposte. He stepped back before any response could catch him and parried two, three four strikes in quick succession. He flowed around a backhanded stroke and landed two clean hits upon the chest of one of the knights. He floated back again, just out of reach.

Jaime laughed, removing his helmet and letting his golden hair fall free. "Very good, but I think I have a guest, sers, and in any case I believe you would have had the best of me very soon."

"Perhaps we should have," the smaller of the two knights stated. "But were this a real fight, I feel certain that you would have already killed us both."

Jaime just smiled and bid them depart, turning to Davos. "Ser Onion! Tales of you exploits have reached even my ears. Or is it Lord Onion, these days?"

Davos smiled gently. "I could not say. You, Ser, would know better than me what the proper address to a Master of Whispers is."

Jaime shook his head. "Ah, I should, but I fear that I was born uncouth. I suppose I might have learnt manners at some point, but I could fight well, and so no one ever bothered with my other shortcomings. Can you swing a sword, Lord Onion? It will be hard to garner respect around here if you cannot."

"Not a sword. In my more violent days, I preferred a belt with coppers sewn into it."

Jaime laughed. "Ah, then you should perhaps become my teacher! I am not practiced with such exotic weaponry."

"We all do as we need."

"Now, come, tell me your business, Lord Onion. Surely the Master of Whisperers does not come to me for light conversation?"

"Ser Jaime," Davos paused, considering how best to say what he intended. Jaime Lannister was a bold, dynamic young man. He seemed pleasant now, but if stories were true he had a vicious temper. "You seem to be in very high spirits."

"You mean for a man who is about to be tried for regicide? What, should I be walking about, crying and moaning and wringing my hands?" Jaime shook his head. "If I were so afraid of the King's justice, I'd have cut my way out of here and be halfway to Essos by now."

"To become a sellsword?"

"I'd figure it out when I got there."

"But you aren't running?"

"You're a queer fellow, aren't you? No, I'm not running." Jaime retorted, picking a cup of wine from a nearby table. His smile had not wavered, but Davos could see now that it was forced. "What's your point? Are you here on behalf of the king?"

Davos frowned. "I am here on no one's behalf but my own." He paused; that was not quite correct. "...or maybe I am here on behalf of the realm. You, your Father, and Lord Arryn are all assuming that this trial is a mere formality, but it is not."

Jaime shrugged again. "Well, perhaps not, but it's bad taste to execute a man for doing something you yourself were going to do as soon as you could. Besides that, my father still seems to think of me as his heir, and the King will be all wrapped up in my sister's legs afore too long. I can't think Stannis very much wants to execute me."

Davos winced. "Have you met the king?"

Jaime smiled again, and this time Davos thought it genuine. "Aye, he does what he thinks right without caring for opinion, that's a thing I can respect. But I am still entitled to trial by combat if it comes to that, and unless Stannis finds Arthur Dayne somewhere, he's not got a knight in his service that I can't beat."

"Trial by combat would be allowable only if you plead innocent of killing Aerys. Do you mean to do that?"

"No, no, I'll not play out that mummer's farce. Are you here to tell me that the king intends to punish me?""

"What the king intends, I cannot say. But if you think he will pardon you..." Davos held up his shortened hand. "You know the story?"

Realization dawned on Jaime's features. He looked to Davos, then back to the hand. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because your father and the king grow more antagonistic every day, and if this trial goes poorly someone might do something foolish. For your sake and the realm's, you need to know that this trial is a deadly serious affair. Be prepared to argue for your life, ser."

Everyone of importance in King's Landing had come for the trial. Eddard Stark had not returned, but Tywin Lannister, Mace Tyrell, Hoster Tully and Jon Arryn were all in attendance. So was the High Septon, and all the Small Council. Stannis sat upon the Iron Throne, the crown weighing heavily upon his brow. Next to him on a lower seat was Stannis' betrothed, Cersei Lannister. Davos had to admit that the tales of her beauty had been no exaggeration, indeed, every eye in the room was upon her. She seemed to be cool and calm, but Davos could see her eyes flitting about the room as though looking for escape.

The tension in the air was palpable, with worried discussion breaking out all over the room as various nobles and dignitaries shuffled around trying to get good seats.

Beneath the stress caused by the trial, Davos could sense an undercurrent of resentment between the assembled nobles.. There had been too much blood spilled in this war, and Stannis had done little enough to breed good will. Mace, Tywin, and Stannis all kept away from each other. Half the power in the realm was not on speaking terms with its king, Davos thought glumly. Perhaps things would become less tense after the Lannister girl wed the king?

The only man able to move between all present was Jon Arryn. He gained a smile from Mace, an approving nod from Stannis, and slightly less dour frown from Tywin.

They brought Jaime Lannister forward, still wearing the white cloak of the Kingsguard and looking to all appearances like he had just come from halfway through a feast. He was unarmed, but also unbound, and his smile was brighter than ever. Ser Semiv Leumas, the newly appointed captain of the goldcloaks, began beating the ground with a staff, calling for order.

"Ser Jaime Lannister," Stannis' booming voice called out before the assembly had fully quieted. "Knight of the Kingsguard and Slayer of the Mad King Aerys. You stand accused of breaking oaths sacred before the Seven. You stand accused of slaying the king you swore to protect. Do you dispute this point?"

"I do, Your Grace." Jaime's smile did not waver in the slightest.

Pandemonium broke out. Every voice in the chamber exploded in confusion and anger, some calling Jaime a liar, some laughing outright at the knight's boldness, others loudly agreeing with Jaime.

"You deny that you were the one to kill Aerys?" Stannis shouted. "You deny that you took his life?" The assembly hushed to let the king speak, eager to hear the Kingslayer's reply.

"I deny that I killed the King I swore to," Jaime said simply. His smile vanished now. "I killed something that had once been Aerys, but at that point he was nothing more than a beast."

The whole room murmured and wondered. "Ser Florent," Stannis barked. "You are Master of Laws, what say you of this defense?"

Imry Florent stepped forward, a proud and cocky smile upon his lips. "Utter poppycock, your grace," Imry stated simply. "Aerys was Aerys, and it was Aerys to whom Ser Jaime swore. All men change. Of what value is a sacred oath before the Seven if a change in a person's demeanor could negate it?" Davos saw many men nod to that, but most were uncertain. Many of these men had sworn oaths to Aerys.

"Your Grace," Stannis' eyes turned to back to Jaime. "I know naught of legal matters. I speak as I saw it at the time. May I recount what happened? Then you may judge for yourself." Stannis nodded slowly.

Jaime began to walk about the room. "They say he was never the same after the Defiance. I wouldn't know, I was all of eleven at the time. I knew Aerys as king and as an… associate of my father's. Prone to saying strange things at feasts," Davos saw many eyes turn to Tywin, but the older lion did not so much as twitch. "But generally Aerys seemed a jovial, friendly man who gave peace to the realm. When I joined the Kingsguard, for a short time I saw nothing to contradict my first impression of him. But then..." Jaime took in a breath. "We all know about the burnings, yes? He started with simple merchants, then knights, then lords, and eventually he burnt Rickard Stark after allowing him to come under safe conduct. You all know about that, but I was _there_. I smelled the flesh peeling from them. I heard Aerys' cacklings mix with the screams of the dying. And there was madness that no one here has even heard of. He-"

"Hold a moment." Stannis interjected. Jaime held his tongue, but his face had grown very red. "Is there any way to prove what you are about to say?"

Jaime inclined his head. "Yes." He said finally, blurting the word as though it were a single drop escaping from a dam. "If good Ser Selmy could bear witness?" Murmurs broke out through the crowd as the graying knight stepped up. His face was grave as he took the stand.

"May I question him?" Jaime said, a shark's smiled on his lips. Stannis nodded. "Ser Selmy, you were in Aerys' service much longer than I. How was Aerys as a younger man?"

Barristan's face had gone white. "Good. Foolish, as many young men are, but he had great plans for the realm."

"Tell the King about the nights we guarded Aerys and his queen. You know of what I speak."

Barristan coughed slightly. "We were often called upon ordered to guard Aerys' bedchambers, or his wife's when he went into hers." Barristan paused, as if unwilling to proceed.

"Tell them what we _heard._ Tell them what we _saw_."

Barristan's' voice wavered ever so slightly. "Aerys… forced himself upon his wife. Every night after he gave someone to the flames he forced her. She was past the age where most women can bear children, and Aerys already had two male sons… but still, her screams filled the castle, for hours and hours. I saw her, once, before she was sent away. She had… marks upon her. Marks as though a beast had clawed her and bitten her and left her only half alive. Pieces of her were missing."

That earned more whispers. It was the pointlessness of the king's cruelty that these men would remember. Forcing a woman, especially a wife, was no great crime in the eyes of most men, but Davos saw even the hardest men present wince a little at Ser Selmy's account.

Jaime rounded on the crowd. "I took oaths as a knight before I took the Kingsguard oath. Oaths to the Maiden and the Mother, to guard their virtue and see them treated with respect. I broke those oaths for Aerys. I broke them to keep my oath as a Kingsguard. Selmy and Dayne and Hightower and all of us did. The Kingsguard dishonored me. It dishonored us all."

"And having broken all the other oaths, you broke the oath of the Kingsguard as well." Stannis stated. "Let us not stray too far from the point."

"I did break that oath. But I broke it later than Ser Selmy did, and it is not he who is on trial."

Barristan turned to Stannis, his face serene. "Ser Jaime does speak the truth."

"He speaks nonsense." Stannis stated. "My brother asked you to transfer your oaths to him, as the true king, and then he pardoned you for everything you did in service to Aerys. The Kingsguard can transfer their oaths to a new king, even while the old one still lives, or else we'd never have had a regency. I believe I have the right of that, Master of Laws?"

Imry's eyes had been wandering through the crowd, but at Stannis' statement he nodded forcefully. "Just so, Your Grace."

The king inhaled sharply. "We know well enough that Aerys was a beast, there is no need to recite the litany of his many crimes. But you, Ser Jaime, were not my brother's Kingsguard when you slew Aerys. You were not mine. You were his. You betrayed _his_ trust. You abused your own sacred oath to kill him, moments before the rebels would make it to the gate. Did you think that we would thank you, Kingslayer?"

Cersei Lannister's emerald eyes flashed at Stannis hatefully.

"It was rather last minute, wasn't it?" Jaimed laughed. "I see you there, Lord Tully. You have not been about much of late, have you?"

"Of course not!" Hoster's voice was loud with fake indignance. "You nearly ran me clean through on the walls of this city!"

"It is true, I was the last to retreat as Lord Arryn's men stormed the walls. I fought as long as I could. I killed many good men in Aerys' name. Perhaps some of the sons of some men in this room! But this city is not defensible, and half the goldcloaks had joined with Lord Arryn. By the time I left, they'd taken the gatehouse and let the whole host in. Aerys was on the throne, screaming, raving about treachery and prophecy. I had just walked in when he ordered for the whole city to be burned."

Calls of disbelief and shock passed through the crowd. "How," was all Stannis said. Stannis was asking the right question. King's Landing was the largest city in Westeros. Surely it could be burned, but doing so would require the concerted effort of an army, not a last few holdouts in the Red Keep.

"Wildfire. The Substance. The king had barrels of it all through the city. One of his damned pyromancers was going to light a cache and start the whole thing off when I caught the man and killed him."

The calls of disbelief redoubled, and Jaime had to shout to make himself heard. "I call upon Davos Seaworth as witness!"

"SILENCE!" Stannis roared, and the shouting ceased. The King rounded upon Davos. "Well, what is the meaning of this?"

Davos stepped forward and reached into his cloak, producing a sealed earthen jar. "Ser Jaime spoke to me about this earlier today. The pyromancer was running for a tower at the edge of the Red Keep when Jaime stopped him, so I sent persons to investigate that tower. There were plans there, for a network of wildfire caches. The last I heard we had found 5 barrels, and fourteen jars in size similar to this one, scattered throughout the city. By now my people may have found a dozen more such caches. We believe the jars to be full of wildfire, and so we have not moved them."

"You brought wildfire in HERE?" Pycelle squeaked, covering his face.

"This jar is empty." Davos stated. "I thought a reference for the size would be useful. If you would care to inspect the others..."

"By the Seven, no." Pycelle stated. "I dare say any courtier from Aerys' reign could identify the stuff at this point."

Jaime smiled. "Aerys claimed to have a hundred of the barrels throughout the city. Rossart was the one who was ordered to light it, so I killed him. Then I dragged Aerys off his throne and killed him, so that he might give the order to no one else." Jaime paused. "I did kill Aerys, or whatever was left of his mind at that point. But he had been about to kill himself in any case, and there was no way he would have lived through to the next day in any case. If I hadn't killed him, he would have died more painfully and taken what was left of the royal family with him. There was no way for me to leave the Red Keep that day _without_ breaking my oath."

Silence reigned in the hall for a moment. "So, it seems that we are all to thank you, Ser Jaime." Stannis' voice was cold. "If what you say is true, you saved half the men in this room, You saved five hundred thousands of my subjects. Why did you not mention this before?"

"Well, wildfire is dangerous to move, so I thought better to let it sit, lose potency, and be forgotten. Come to think of it, some over-zealous Targaryen loyalist might have trie to burn the city if he had heard about it."

"Wildfire increases in potency and volatility over time!" Pycelle hoarsely whispered. "It isn't some potion from a wood-witch that needs to be used before midnight!"

Jaime's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "Oh, well then." He smiled broadly at Stannis. "It is good that we had this trial then!"

"Indeed." Stannis stated. "You have done great service to the realm, Jaime Lannister. I know what it is to be caught between oaths, to make hard choices where there is no clear right. And yet…"

Tywin Lannister stood up from his seat. Stannis nodded to him nearly immediately, and the old Lion began to speak. "Your Grace, Jaime is a hero of the realm. He sacrificed his honor for good of everyone. Remove him from the Kingsguard, for that is no order for a slayer of a king, but the realm needs men who put the realm first, and my son is clearly such a man."

Nods were made throughout the room, but Jaime and Stannis both took the news uneasily. "Baelor the Blessed wrote of freeing men from their service in the Kingsguard," Pycelle added helpfully. "So there is precedent within our law. The oath is for life, but..."

"But nothing." Stannis growled. "Selmy, you are Lord Commander, is there any means by which a man might be released from the brotherhood?"

"You are the King." Tywin's' voice cut Barristan's reply off short. "The Kingsguard is a fabrication for your convenience."

Stannis rounded on Tywin. "I think we are all aware of whose convenience you intend to serve, Lord Tywin. As for me, I consider the tradition and rules of the Kingsguard to be no small matter."

"The writings of Baelor," Barristan interjected uncertainly, "referred to repurposing the Brotherhood as a sort of King's Septons, if Grandmaester Pycelle is referring to the ones I am thinking of. There is no…."

"I will take the black, does that work?"

The confused conversation ended all at once, as Jaime's voice called out. All heads turned to the man on trial. Jaime laughed to see them all staring at him. "Well, that's the simplest way, isn't it? I fancy that my white cloak is spotted enough with dishonor to be nearly black anyway. Besides, what more is there here for me? Already they call me Kingslayer, and oathbreaker, and any other number of titles I have no care for. Better to freeze my balls off in the North with honor than live in a palace surrounded by disgrace. No, I think I rather like the idea. I will take the black."

"Jaime!" Cersei Lannister stood then, her eyes bright with tears. "You cannot do this."

Her brother laughed. "I rather think I can, sister. I will miss you," he said, with a sudden touch of tenderness. "But no, I must do this. For the first time in a long time, I feel confident that I am doing the right thing."

Barristan bowed his head to Jaime. "Your example will be remembered in the White Book of the Brothers for all time. Dayne, Hightower, Whent, Martell, myself… of all of us, you will be remembered as the one who kept his honor, even if you had to blacken it to do so."

Cersei's turned away from her brother, and Davos saw something then, in the girl's eyes. Hatred, or jealousy, maybe, deep and scathing. Not for the first time, Davos worried for Stannis' future cooperation with the Westerlands. The Lannister who Stannis might have most worked with the king was leaving for the North, never to return.


	9. Chapter 8: Snow from the Desert

Ned sat in the godswood, listening to his sister screaming, and prayed to the Old Gods.

They had moved Lyanna to Kingsgrave, that being the nearest holding likely to have a maester on hand. Ned had not much liked the idea of moving his sister, but everything had gone well and he could not regret it. Lord Dagos Manwoody had showed them the height of hospitality, and had even done his best to maintain the farce that Ned and his men were simple sellswords seeking respite from their travels.

Everyone within the castle proper knew the truth, of course, and Ned had even sent a message to King's Landing, letting Stannis know that they had found Lyanna. Initially, Ned had wanted the existence of Lyanna's child to remain a secret, but he knew now that that was impossible.

The Lannister men had found them after a week, and Ned had been glad that he had sent word ahead. A score of them had opted to stay in the castle with them, and to escort them back to King's Landing safely. They had been had been kind, considerate, and thorough thus far. Ned distrusted them still, even if he had no reason.

His sister screamed again, and Ned resumed his prayers.

Enough thoughts of politics, there would be no shortage of tha. His sister was facing the most danger right now. She was but six and ten and had been living roughly these past few weeks. The midwife the Kingsguard had procured had been competent enough, but they had lacked for basic necessities. Many women did not survive their first birth, and Lyanna had faced additional risk.

Abruptly, the screaming stopped, and when it started again, it was not Lyanna's voice but the voice of a child.

Ned rose to his feet, hastily donning his cloak again and picking up his greatsword. As he drew near, he heard Lyanna's voice, and it was happy. Had everything gone well? The maids let him into the room after a time, and then he saw them. Lyanna and her little babe, resting quietly for the moment. The floor was slick with blood, and Ned felt his heart rise up into his throat.

Lyanna smiled at him. "Everything is well, brother. Come and meet your nephew."

Ned looked for a moment to the maester who had delivered Lyanna's baby. The young man was slumped in a chair, his robes pulled up and his hands covered in blood. The maester nodded to him. "It's alright to go, milord. The birth was... difficult, but they are both well."

Ned rushed forward falling to a knee as he laid his hand upon his nephew's head. He had not often been around a child so young. It seemed that his sister, barely a woman herself, should herself have a child. "And what shall we call him?"

Lyanna chuckled, tired but happy. "Perhaps I will name him Robert."

Ned looked up abruptly, causing Lyanna's chuckle to deepen into a laugh. "You are surprised, brother?"

"I know that you don't hate Robert anymore, but..."

"I owe him a debt, Ned. The man killed Rhaegar for me. And truly, names are cheap. If a name can buy the boy some safety why should I not call him that?" She chuckled again. "What loyalist would fight to put a Robert on the throne?"

Ned smiled. His sister had been so nervous and sad these past few weeks, but now she was her old self again. "A good idea, but unfortunately his cousin already has that name." Ned replied. "Although if you've any deep attachment..."

Lyanna's eyes grew wide. "You're a father as well?" Ned smiled and nodded, as Lyanna laid a hand on his arm. "Ned, why did you not tell me?"

"He was born shortly before I found you in that tower. I heard only recently, and you had enough to worry about. I look forward to meeting little Robb and I hope that the boys will grow up to be the best of friends."

Lyanna smiled. "Well, then perhaps I will name mine Eddard, after the hero of the rebellion? Or Jon? Or Stannis?" Her eyes became wide and predatory. "Perhaps we shall call him Jaime."

"Jon is a good name." Ned said after a moment. If they named the child after the King, he might see it as ingratiating flattery and be insulted. Or he might not. Ned did not know Stannis that well. Jon, though, would both see the political move for what it was and be honored by it.

"Jon he'll be, then. My own little Jon Snow." Her face darkened a little at that. The child would be a bastard, undoubtedly, and would carry all the struggle that title carried with him for the rest of his life.

"Lyanna," Ned urged. "I promise you, your son will lack for nothing."

She wiped away a tear with a free hand. "How can you promise that? You know that the King has summoned us. You know what was done with Rhaegar's other children."

Ned lowered his gaze. "Rhaegar's legitimate children. And Stannis is no friend of mine, but neither is he unfair."

* * *

"To the health of your sister, and to mine."

Ned tipped back the drink. He had never cared for the Dornish wines, but he downed the drink gracefully. He did not wish insult the Red Viper of Dorne, after all. Oberyn Martell had come upon them when they halted their journey in Wyl. The babe Jon had been as healthy as could be hoped for, but Lyanna was still greatly weakened from the birth.

"So tell me, Lord Stark," Oberyn's tone was merry but his eyes were dark. "You fought alongside the men who killed my uncle, my sister was shamed by yours, and your mentor is holding my niece and nephew captive. Should I hate you?"

Ned drew in a breath. Oberyn was testing him, that must be it. "How could I tell you how you should feel? Your uncle fought at the behest of the man who shamed both your sister and mine, and your blood is being held captive on his account, not yours. You tell me who you should hate."

Oberyn laughed deeply. "You speak the truth, Lord Stark. Rhaegar made us all look like fools. But I do wish that my sister was not bound to King's Landing."

"She is free to return to you."

"And abandon her children?" Oberyn scoffed. "Will your Lyanna abandon hers?"

"Jon will come to us in the North."

Oberyn smiled warmly. "But of course. Bastards are of little consequence, and besides that you are one of the men who runs this realm now, are you not? Your father's southern ambition payed off, it seems."

And he and Brandon and Robert had all died for it. "It was not worth the cost."

"Blood always comes first," Oberyn declared. "And what of you and the King? I thought that you would surely insist upon your sister's marriage to the throne. Is the King so dislikable that you would not subject your sister to him?"

"The King is fair, and I have no issue with him. However, I think my family needs to keep its attentions northward for now. I will have no honors from the king. I will retire to the North, and simply be Lord of Winterfell."

"A wise move." Oberyn sipped his wine. "Entangling with Andals never ends well."

Ned almost laughed at that. "I am married to one now, I fear there is no hope for to avoid attachments to the South."

"Ah, but that kind of entanglement," Oberyn wagged his finger suggestively. "Sometimes it is worth the bad ending, no?"

Not knowing what to say in reply, Ned poured himself more Dornish Red.

* * *

They had waited in Wyl for a whole month, and even then, Ned was loathe to risk the journey. Lyanna's health had been mending, but only gradually. Fortunately, they had no worry on Jon's account. The babe had been healthy, happy, and as quiet an infant as any could wish. More importantly, he looked nothing whatsoever like Rhaegar or any other Targaryen.

Travel had been slow, both due to Lyanna's health and due to the Targaryen loyalists still holding dragonstone. They had set out from Kingsgrave in a riverboat, moved to a galley at Old Wyl, then changed to a wagon to cross Massey's Hook, and now they were once again in a ship, crossing the Blackwater Bay to King's Landing. In the months of travel, Ned had heard almost nothing from King's Landing. It was likely that Jon's fate had already been decided.

Ned held Jon a bit more tightly and rocked him. They were arriving in port near sundown, and he expected that the King would meet with them on the following day. Lyanna was sleeping at the moment, but Ned expected that the calls of the dockhands and crew would wake her before long.

A plain-faced, bearded man sprang onto the deck before they were fully into port and walked straight over to Ned, bowing deeply as soon as he came near. "Lord Stark, I am Davos Seaworth. The King sent me to bring you to him."

Ned blew air through his nose. Could the King not wait a single night? They had been travelling all day. "We will be happy to go up to him, Ser Seaworth." Lyanna's voice called from behind Ned. She looked like a little girl just then, wrapped in a thick fur coat with her hair blowing about her. Her skin was pale, still, from her months of confinement indoors at the tower, and then later aboard the ships. She had never been pale before, when she had been allowed to ride.

"I can take you to him now."

On the dock awaited an honor guard, along with horses and a box for Lyanna and the babe. At least it seemed that Stannis' man was considerate. They proceeded to the Tower of the Hand, the evening air filled with the normal putrid smells. Ned sent a silent prayer to the Old Gods, that Lyanna would contract no new illness by coming here.

"It's a miracle, is it not?" Ned was stirred from his reverie by the voice of Davos. "To have your first child. Oh, they're all marvelous, but to actually see them..."

Ned smiled in spite of his dark thoughts. "I had almost given up my sister for dead, to find her, and gain a new nephew at the same time?" He shook his head. "Better than I had hoped."

They proceeded in silence for a time. "I do not know what I expected of a Master of Whispers, Ser Seaworth, but you are not it." Ned did not know why he said it.

"Master of Whispers is but a title. I am nothing more than the plain sailor that I have always been."

"And yet the King sends you to us, and not the Kingsguard, or any other dignitaries?"

Davos lowered his head. "Aye, well, most of the dignitaries have gone home at this hour, and the Kingsguard are not yet up to their full number."

They rounded a bend and the Red Keep came into view. The fortress was alight with torches, yellow-coated guards posted on every wall. "The Red Keep is ready for war," Ned stated idly.

"That's the Stormguard," replied Davos. "They fill the Red Keep these days. Best footsoldiers in the Seven Kingdoms, to hear their captain talk. Many of them were in the siege with him. They're nearly always drilling."

Ned held his tongue. Keeping a small army ready at all times might be a good show of strength, but it might also be seen as the sort of paranoid fearful behavior to which Aerys had been prone. Did Stannis not see the war as being truly over? Did he expect a host from Dragonstone?

They stabled their horses. A maid came to take Jon from Lyanna, but she would not allow it. Ned waved the maid away. He would not allow his blood to leave his sight. Stannis' solar was alight, bright as day, candles on every wall. Stannis and Jon were alone in there, Stannis pacing back and forth, while Jon sat tiredly to the side. Ned felt a pang of sympathy for the old man. He should be at home with his new wife, not out here past sunset.

Ned kneeled as he approached. "Your Grace."

"Lord Stark, you may rise," Stannis stated. He nodded to Lyanna as well. "Lady Lyanna. It seems that your brother was not wasting his time."

Lyanna curtsied clumsily, reserving one hand for baby Jon. Carrying the babe to the solar had strained her, Ned could see. He wanted to go to her, to steady her, but he had to let her do this alone.

"And then, this is the child?" Stannis' eyes went to the swaddled form of Jon at her hip.

"This is my son."

Stannis' jaw flexed. "Of course." He lowered his head and locked eyes with her. "He will want for nothing in the Maidenvault with his half-siblings."

Ned's eyes shot over to Jon. The older man simply shook his head wearily. Lyann took the news poorly, her face hardening even as tears welled up. Ned felt his mind go cold. How many Starks would be devoured by this city?

Ned closed his eyes. "Your Grace," He began, not knowing quite what he intended to say. "The boy is our blood."

"He is a Targaryen."

"He is a bastard. He could only be used to claim the throne if both Aegon, Viserys, Rhaella, Rhaenys, and Danaerys were all dead."

"A bastard can become legitimate."

"And what of it?" Ned's voice was surprised by the harshness of his own voice. "What Targaryen loyalist would fight a war for Jon Snow, Bastard of the North, nephew of Eddard Stark? The dragons curse your name, but they curse mine in the same breath."

Stannis towered over Ned, his face hard and unyielding. "And what of Dorne? I hold their blood as well, do you think they thank me for that? Do you think the realm will be stronger if I deal with my subjects unfairly? I have a duty to the realm, Lord Stark. I am merely holding the boy, and not killing him."

Ned's hand settled upon the hilt of Ice at his hip. Words formed in his mind, words that he could never take back. He opened his mouth.

Lyanna spoke first. "Elia Martell is too sickly to be moved and her children are legitimate claimants. I am not Elia and Jon is not Aegon." Her face was no longer pale, but red and alive and full of rage. "You have a duty to the realm, your grace, but I am a mother, tell me what my duty is?"

"Duty to the realm comes first." Stannis stated, his face tight.

Lyanna broke gaze with him a moment. "Aye. I will not argue that. A year ago I might have, but not now."

Ned breathed in. The fury had not left him, but now he was cool, composed. "Your Grace, I came here in a gesture of good faith, to show that I was doing nothing untoward. I let you know of the boy's existence as soon as I could, to act as honorably as possible. I was among the first to declare for your brother, and among the first to declare for you. I have asked no honor from you for my fealty, but now I ask you this. I beg this of you. Let my nephew and my sister return to the North. I think I ask for little enough." He added.

"Your 'little enough' is greater than you know." Stannis growled. "Winter is coming, you say? Well what of war? For that is coming too. This entire kingdom rests on the edge of a knife, Lord Stark, and should it befall us, thousands will be made into orphans."

"I am well aware of the price of war, your Grace." Lyanna choked out. She was crying now, and it was all Ned could do to restrain himself from running to her. "But tell me, what threat does Jon truly pose? Where are his loyal supporters? Where are his banners? Where are the men who will lift Jon on high to acclaim him as king?"

"And what of the boy himself, when he is of age? What of his descendants?"

Lyanna advanced upon Stannis, clutching her child as though the babe were a weapon. "Do you think I am the enemy, Your Grace? Do you think I will raise up my son on tales of Rhaegar's chivalry? Do you think he will raise his sons on such tales? Do you think any such tales at all will be heard in the North after this?" She grit her teeth in anger. "Aerys burned my father alive and strangled my brother. Rhaegar raped me a hundred times, and his knights killed half my brother's friends to try and keep him from me." Her wide eyes stared up into Stannis' own. "You say that the fury is yours? I say that your Seven Hells have no fury like the one I bear against the Dragons."

The King did not meet her gaze. He moved to say something, but an entering page interrupted him. "Your Grace," the boy said. "Your lady wife is here."

Stannis' jaw flexed. Jon Arryn cleared his throat."Perhaps we should see what your lady wife has to say, Your Grace. I believe that a diversion from the discussion at hand may be profitable to all parties."

Stannis sighed. "Very well, see her in."

Shortly thereafter, Cersei Lannister entered the room, bedecked in red and gold. Ned had seen beauties in Westeros. Ashara Dayne, his own lady wife, and even his own child-like sister had all been praised as great beauties, but Cersei outshone them all. She was the sort men would make songs of, Ned had no doubt.

"Your Grace," She said, smiling indulgently. "I had just heard that Lyanna Stark had come to us after such a long journey, and knowing that she must be tired, I brought up some wine with me." She gestured to a servant bearing a pitcher. Cersei turned her smile upon Lyanna. "I have wanted to meet you for some time."

Lyanna rubbed out her tears with her thumb. "I am surprised," she managed. "I am no one particularly interesting."

Cersei shook her head. "You cannot mean that."

Lyanna took in a deep breath, and smiled. "I am at your disposal, my queen."

"It is customary, you know, for the queen to have several female companions from amongst the ladies of the realm." Cersei paused. "Your brother has been terribly dour about asking for appointments; there are almost no persons from amongst the North here in the capital. I would have you here, though, as one of my companions, if you will assent to it?"

Jon Arryn sighed and rose from his seat. "There is merit to the idea," He commented, helping himself to the wine. "If you are concerned with staying with your son, that could be arranged, even as it has been arranged for Elia Martell."

Lyanna's broke from Cersei's gaze and looked to her brother. Ned closed his eyes. "Pardon, my lords. Might I speak privately with my sister a moment?" Stannis nodded wearily, and Cersei just continued smiling.

Lyanna followed him out onto a balcony a little ways removed from the Solar. "What do you think, brother? It would not be so bad." Her eyes were sad, resigned. Ned pulled her into a warm embrace.

"Aye. Perhaps not." Ned said eventually, pulling away. "But I should miss you greatly. And the boy would still be a prisoner." He looked away a moment. "Lyanna, this offer of Cersei's, it is not so innocent as it seems. Jon, Lord Arryn, he planned that interaction."

She frowned. "Are you sure?"

"The man raised me Lyanna. I love him, and he is a kind man, but he is hard, too. He seeks to avoid further conflict between us and the King. He knows a little of you from what I have told him. He knows that you would never consent to stay on at the Red Keep as merely a mother, detached from all your friends and family. He knows that the idea of having a position, an occupation, that will make the idea palatable."

Lyanna smiled. "If his scheme is simply to give me something I want, I cannot fault him."

"Lyanna, we can go home together. We can go North. If we press the issue, Stannis will yield to us. I am sure of it."

"Are you sure?"

"He must," Ned insisted. "If he had been going to insist upon his rights as King, he would already have done so. He owes us a great debt, sister. I had planned to ask for nothing in repayment, but if all I ask for is this he cannot refuse me. However great a threat he thinks your son is, he cannot refuse me this one thing forever, and he knows that."

Lyanna looked away and was quiet a moment. The city sprawled out underneath them, a festering corpse of a city, with smoke rising from its shops and stoves to grasp at the stars themselves.

"I will stay here, I think." Lyanna's voice was quiet.

Ned looked to her. "Lyanna, this place..."

She laughed. "I know. I will hate this city. Father and Brother died here. But I have nearly destroyed the realm once for my own freedom. This will be penance for that. If it buys some peace between you and the King..."

"Lyanna, please. Let me press the issue."

She shook her head. "No, Ned. I'm done having my family make stands on my behalf. My son may grow up sheltered, but he will know my love. That should be enough."

Ned bowed his head. What could he do but let her stay?


	10. Chapter 9: Dragons from the Fog

He ran his fingers through his hair, scarcely restraining the panic that had begun to seize his mind. They were dead. Dead. All of them. Dead or chained to a wall as hostages and worse than dead.

Willem Darry was no craven. He had fought and bled and killed with the best of them. But fear had lately become an ally, had kept him sharp and on the lookout for danger. Now it seized him, filled his throat with bile. He wanted to run. He wanted to charter a vessel to Lys and leave the children to their fate.

But he had not come this far to give in, to give up. He would not be broken by a rat from Flea Bottom.

He had first seen the Rat's men in the dockyard, a week before. They must have been the ratmen, anyhow. Westerosi were all over the city, the men at the docks were simple merchants, no doubt. In any case even the Rat had not become so bold as to strike here, at the heart of Braavosi power. That was what the Sealord had said to him.

The Sealord was a fool. Or perhaps he was in league with them. No, Willem drew in a breath. The Sealord was not in league with Stannis, nor was he an idiot. Most likely, he simply did not care. By all accounts he had gotten along famously with the new regime. Really, it should not have been surprising. The Sealord was nothing more than an upjumped merchant after all, and such men had always been welcome at King Stannis' table.

More men had come today, this time to his house. They had loitered outside, inspecting the place with their cold eyes. Common men. Merchants. Part-time pirates and servants of the Rat, he had no doubt. He had half-considered charging out there and cutting them both down. He could have done so. Should have, maybe. But that could have been a trap.

All paths might turn ill at this juncture for all he knew.

The sun had gone and the docks were cold. Willem wrapped the cloak around himself and waited. He was meeting a man here, a Lyseni merchant. The man had asked for an obscene amount of gold to meet him here. Insulting, but Willem had expected that. Few captains would arrange a meeting on the day before they departed, but he had need of haste.

The man walked into the alley. He was tall and spare, with long white hair and a thin white beard.

"You're the Lyseni?"

The man coughed. "My name is Laador Asam. And you are Master Yarin?"

Willem nodded. All of this lying and back-alley confrontation made his skin crawl. "Aye. Can you arrange for passage for a dozen persons to board your ship to Lys?"

The Lyseni spread his hands. "All things can be arranged, Master Yarin." He paused. "As it happens, the lying whoreson of a merchant who I buy from only had half the stock I had come here to buy. I am rich with space, and poor of gold. But of course, to take so many, on such short notice..." The man winced, with what seemed almost comical overreaction. "My men are tired, sleeping at home with their wives. Shall I call them out again and have them dump the fine tea that we have bought here? You ask much Master Yarin."

"How much?" Darry growled. These Lyseni were all the same.

"Now, now, that is not fair," Laador huffed. "I am undertaking much risk Master Yarin. How did you discover the name of my humble ship?"

"Madame Silessa," Darry muttered. He had been a staunch patron of the woman's establishment for two years now, and he trusted her, insofar as he was capable of trust these days. "How much?"

"Ah, but you should have said that you came from dear Sissy!" The Lyseni man laughed. "For a friend of the family, a hundred dragons?"

Darry ground his teeth. That was a princely sum for a passage. Did the sailor know? No, no, this was just his way. One of the rat's men would have been all too eager to help, in any case. "80 dragons," he insisted.

"You wound me!" The man howled. "My children, they will go hungry! Perhaps ninety?"

"Four score and five," Darry hardened. It was a small matter, but every dragon counted these days.

"Ah, I will be made a beggar! What shall I say I say to my dear wife?" Laador sighed and extend his hand. "Alas, for all paths beggar me. The deal is the deal."

Darry muttered a reply and returned the handshake.

He did not sleep that night. Everything necessary had been packed, the children had been closeted and put to bed, then woken again before it was quite dawn. Little Daenerys, barely two and a half namedays old, stared out wide-eyed at the great, surly men that worked around them. These sailors came from all over Essos. He even saw a great big man who who looked half Dothraki. Viserys took the whole affair more stoically than his sister, keeping himself cool and aloof from the others.

"Scared to be going away again, Your Grace?" Darry questioned.

"Why should I be scared?" Viserys said, his face tight and controlled. "I am going to the ancestral lands of my family."

Well, the Targaryens had not come from Lys, but Darry supposed the boy was close enough to right. In any case, they could hide there, amidst a sea of white hair. Darry shot another glance at the True King of Westeros. Viserys was staring out into the sunrise, the wind blowing his hair aloft in the breeze. He was a good lad. A brave lad for being not yet ten.

He gripped Viserys' shoulder tightly as they pulled out of the bay. It was early morning now. There was a chance that they had set a fleet of pirates just outside of the Titan. Darry could believe that easily enough. His heart rose to his chest as they passed between the legs of the Titan.

Hours passed, and he could not relax. His eyes had gone weary, searching for the ships of the Rat. Ships did come, but they never drew near. By the afternoon, he began to feel hope. By sunset, he laughed to himself and retired to his cabin, a bottle of port in hand. He had done it again! He had escaped them and he would hide again. Not even the Rat had so keen a nose as to sniff him out in Lys, at least not for a long time. And by then he would have agreements with Dorne, and with the Golden Company, and with thousands of others. A stag was no dragon, they would all see that soon enough, and when he returned, they would sing Viserys' praises from the rooftops.

When he woke in the morning there was a knife at his neck.

They pulled him, stumbling, to the deck. His head ached and his limbs felt as though they were filled with lead. He tried to fight, but his feeble, groggy movements accomplished nothing. The steps dragged against his knees as the pulled him into the sunlight. They let go of him, and he struggled to his feet, the early morning light blinding him. He was surrounded. Big men with long knives and dour faces. Why had they let him stand? Even so hungover as he was, he was a knight of the realm.

"Willem Darry," The voice was cold, plain. "You stand accused of high treason against King Stannis Baratheon, first of his name."

Darry whirled on the speaker. "Treason? Treason? I'm the only man here who isn't a traitor!" Chuckles rippled through the crew at that. Darry closed up his stance. Why were they laughing? Surely these men were not such blackguards that they had no respect for loyalty?

"No one here swore an oath to King Aerys, Ser." The speaker was a man of middling height, his face obscured by a great beard and a seaman's cap. "They are simple tradesmen, nothing more. Most of these men, in a week, will take their pay from King Stannis and never speak to me again."

"It's you." Darry growled hoarsely, and to his own shame he felt tears running down his cheeks. "You're the King's Rat."

"Some men have called me that."

"You-" Willem started forward and immediately a dozen knives were pointed at his neck. "How did you do it. Did Silessa sell me out? How did you find me in the first place?"

"I've known where you are for six months, Darry. The men you saw on the wharf were just there to flush you out of hiding, make you try to charter a ship. Every one of your contacts in this city had a spy watching them."

"The Lyseni captain-"

"The real Laador is enjoying a hundred and fifty dragons to do nothing." The Rat paused. "Ser Willem Darry, do not curse yourself. You never had a chance to find another ship."

Darry scowled and cursed. "You make a mockery of all that is good in the world, Rat. Yours is a world where women poison their husbands and friends can't look each other in the eye."

The Rat shook his head. "Ser Willem Darry, though these men laugh at you, King Stannis would not. You have served Aerys loyally. The King is a just man, and sees the honor in you. He has passed judgement on you already, so that your fate could be clear as soon as you are captured. Take the black, Ser, or perish. A boat will come to take you to Eastwatch, and you will betray no one and retain your honor in serving the realm. This is your only chance to take this offer."

"I presume you've already tossed the children into the sea, villain?"

"No. They'll be taken to the Maidenvault with their kin." The Rat nodded. "The King is just."

Darry swallowed the bile in his throat. The King was a usurper, an oathbreaker, and a tyrant. He trod upon the sacred rights of nobility, passed over stout men for people like the Rat, and hunted the children of the man he had betrayed. And yet… and yet… to serve in the Night's Watch would not be dishonorable. The black brotherhood were not Stannis' dogs yet at least.

He considered it a moment. To live was surely no evil thing. But in what manner would he live? The Wall was manned by whore's sons and deserters and thieves. To live with such men as 'brothers'? That was surely an evil fate.

"For what reason would I go to the wall?" Darry sneared. "I've done nothing wrong. I've no honor to regain. Take me to your King, let him judge me. Let him tell me how righteous he is. I want to see it."

"Ah," The Rat stated. "I am sorry." Darry felt rough hands take him, push him to his knees. "Your judgement has already been passed." Darry looked up into the Rat's dark eyes with hatred. "The Stranger comes, ser."

Darry's head rolled onto the deck a moment later.


	11. Chapter 10: A Wool Cloak

**Chapter 10: A Cloak of Wool  
-**  
It was the same dream. The same dream she had been having for months now. Every night she was standing, balancing on a beam. Her eyes were covered and her legs were bound to the beam with a heavy iron chain. She was calm, despite her captivity, and she never grew weary of standing. This was the way of things. Soon, she would awak to light and excitement. She knew this and she did not fear.

If there had been a time before this, she did not think on it. There was nothing in the world for now except the beam, the darkness, and the small sounds that floated in the air. Many times, she felt that she saw things in the dark. A running mouse or a flying dove, but she knew that those images were meaningless. Phantoms. She saw nothing for now, and that too was meaningless. This darkness would last for an eternity, but soon there would the hunt. The sounds grew louder just then, and she felt a surge of excitement within herself. The time of dreaming would soon be over.

...And then there she was, lying in her bed in the Maidenvault, with the light not quite beginning to shine in from her window. That dream, that damned dream. It was strange, ominous. It made her think of Rhaegar and the visions that had tormented him. That was never a pleasant thought with which to start a morning. She believed that Rhaegar might have been a truly good man, once, but those thrice-damned visions had destroyed anything worthy within him. In any case, the dreams were meaningless. The dreams of a mother imagining what life must be like before birth, perhaps? It did fit. Floating and senseless… but that was enough. The day was long and there were things to be done.

She lit a candle, dressed, broke her fast, and tripped down the stairs to the outside. The guard at the door today was Brynden Tully, and she greeted him with a warm smile. Of all of the Maidenvault's guards, Lyanna liked him the best. The older man might be her son's jailor, but he had an air of patience about him. You could speak with Brynden about anything or nothing, and he would listen intelligently without offering judgement. She rather supposed that the Lyanna of four years ago would have been rather taken with the man.

The Lyanna of four years ago was a fool.

Still, she far preferred his company to that of the other door guards. Richard Horpe was courtly, but his restless energy made it impossible to be at ease with him. Mandon Moore and Preston Greenfield were quieter and more reserved, but she feared them more for that, not less. Aron Santagar would have been less bad, except that he persisted in his advances towards herlong after she had made her position clear. There were other guards. Payne, Oakheart, Weston, Davrick, Slynt, Swann… but they scarcely acknowledged her.

"Out early again?" Brynden asked with a smile.

Lyanna nodded. "Of course. The mornings are the only time I am free. Else Jon or Cersei or some other person is demanding my attention." She paused. "I do have some time available in the evening, today, if nothing comes up."

"Ah. Well, if you do have time, I'll be drilling the Stormguard in formations this evening."

She smiled and nodded. "Perhaps I will stop by."

Brynden finished unlocking the door which led into the narrow antechamber. Once she had gone in, he locked it behind her and she called to the guard on the exterior door. After a moment the door swung open, and Lyanna was out in the cold air of the morning.

The Red Keep had only just begun to wake, and she saw no lords or ladies as she went down towards the godswood. Before she entered the wood, she stopped by a low stone building on the side of the stables. This was what passed for the Mews of the Red Keep. Not many people went in for hawking here. The only acceptable terrain for the sport was in the godswood, and that was too narrow a spot for most people's tastes. She had never seen Willas Tyrell out here with his birds; the hostage from the Reach was a great enthusiast but he practiced his hobby later in the day.

A minute later she was in the godswood, accompanied by Brighteyes. The beautiful white gyrfalcon had been a gift from her younger brother, and she took her out every chance she had. She released her and she wheeled away into sky with a hunting cry. She smiled to watch Brighteys fly and continued her walk. Brighteyes was magnificent, larger than any other falcon Lyanna had seen, and faster and smarter too. The gyrfalcon hovered in the air above her, nearly invisible against the clouds. A dove fluttered away from her as Lyanna approached, heading for a nearby tree.

Brighteyes had gone into a dive even before the dove quite took flight. The gyrfalcon fell through the air like bolt from the heavens, ripping the dove's head clean off in a single pass. Lyanna laughed at the thrill of it. This one Benjen had sent her was smarter, faster, and more obedient than any other she had owned.

The hours flew away merrily as she walked in the godswood. Hawking was an acceptable female pursuit, although she hardly understood why. It was a gory business from beginning to end. Other women had assistants to sanitize the process, of course, but even so... It did not matter. She stilled her mind. The godswood was a place for quiet thoughts.

Her walk never took her far from the Heart Tree, and she always felt the tree's eyes on her back. She had not paid the Old Gods the reverence that Eddard or Benjen had. It was odd, she supposed, considering Ned's' Southern upbringing. Even so the Heart Tree, like her falcon, was something from the North. Something from home. She wished she could bring Jon to the Heart Tree, and set him on its roots as her brother had with his babe.

The sun was only just starting to peek above the walls of the Red Keep, but in the rest of the city the day had begun hours ago. The sound of all manner of beasts and ships and men flitted over the castle walls, faint, but enough to remind her of the passage of time. She sighed. Jon would be awake soon, and while there were nursemaids and minders aplenty in the Maidenvault, Lyanna never liked to leave him for too long. She would have enough distractions later in the day, that much was certain.

Her falcon landed on her leather gauntlet and she fed her a scrap of meat. "Well done today, Brighteyes," She said. "Now, let's get you back to your roost."

She returned the falcon and made for the Maidenvault, stopping by the kitchens to drop off her falcon's kills. The Stormguard outside the Maidenvault acknowledged her with a slight nod, and a moment later she was inside, removing the light shawl she had been wearing in the cool morning air.

"Welcome back, Lady Winter." Brynden had not moved from his position. Lady Winter. Cersei had been the first to call her that. It was a jibe, an insult, but from Brynden it was merely an expression of familiarity.

"Are the others awake yet?" Lyanna questioned.

"Elia is not, but her-" He was cut off as a messy brown mop of curls burst into the room.

"Auntie Lyanna!" Rhaenys Targaryen cried, putting her hands on her hips. "Have you seen Balerion? I can't find him anywhere."

"Cats are like that, dear. He's left to a special place only cats know about."

Rhaenys pouted. "But where is he?"

"He'll come back soon enough, you know he will. He always does." Lyanna knelt to the little girl's level. "The best catcatchers know that the only way to catch one is to wait silently for them to come to you."

The little girl wrinkled her nose and giggled. "You can't catch anything like that!" With that declaration she was off running again.

"Balerion the Black Dread has been the subject of much worry this morning." Brynden commented."I spent nearly a full hour earlier assisting Rhaenys in looking for the beast. To no avail, I fear."

"Duty, Ser Blackfish."

"Aye." He replied somberly.

Lyanna left him and went to find where her boy was.

Little Jon was following his elder half-brother about with a wooden sword, playing at being Aemon the Dragonknight to Aegon's Dareon. Lyanna came into the room and leaned against one wall, content to observe until Jon ran over, waving his little wooden sword. "Are you a brave knight?" She asked, and Jon smiled brightly and nodded.

She felt a pang at her heart just then. She understood the ban on weapons in the Maidenvault. Martial skills of any kind were the domain of kings, knights, and lords. Rhaegar's children could never be any of those things. She supposed that the power and grandeur of being a lord was what made martial pursuits so interesting in the first place. Was that not what had made jousting and swordplay so appealing to her? The children would have maesters, septons, and tutors for any skill that was not warfare, and in their adult life they would join one of those orders.

They might let him take the black, one day, and that was not so terrible a prospect to her as it was to Elia. Her brother Benjen had gone there willingly, and the two times she had seen him since he had seemed to be in good health and spirits. But Benjen had been trained for that life, and had been able to choose. If her Jon went to the Wall, it would be without ever having held a real sword, and the only alternatives would have been to become a scholar or a septon. Regardless, her boy's dream of becoming a magnificent knight like Aemon was impossible, so long as the King's decree stood.

Decrees could be changed, of course.

"Shall I tell you both a story?" She asked, settling down on a seat nearby.

"Hour of the Wolf!" Little Aegon called out, his purple eyes alight with excitement. The little dragon loved that story for some reason.

"Alright, well, this all happened more than a hundred years ago, when Jon's great ancestor Cregan Stark was Lord in the North."

An hour, not more, was all the time she had. Most of the rest of her day was the Queen's. She left the children behind and went to prepare herself. She did not need long. Some of Cersei's other attendants spent their entire mornings in their toilet, carefully applying oils and brushing hair and testing various perfumes.

Lyanna's approach was more simple. She donned a great shaggy half-cloak made of a wolf pelt, clasped with a silver brooch in the form of a claw. She brushed her hair again, and tucked her bangs behind her ear right with a feathered clip. She had a silver ring for every finger and an old-fashioned dress of cotton. Her box of powders and scents she left untouched.

Exactly once, before she left, her looked into the mirror, drawing her expression into a cold, impenetrable wall. Her face was flint and her eyes were ice. She was from the Old Blood and these southerners could do nothing to her.

Brynden laughed at her when she came again into the hall. "Dressed for war like a Wildling Princess, Lady Winter."

"You can't let the beasts know that you fear them," Lyanna replied evenly.

-


	12. Chapter 11: The Wolf Beneath

**Chapter 11: The Wolf Beneath  
-**  
The Red Keep now swarmed with people, lords, ladies, and otherwise. Servants bustled this way and that, the whole great castle full of noise. She loved watching them all, speaking with them, learning their stories. There was the baker who forever carted flour to and fro, the Stormguard who was always humming as he stood watch, the stableboys who were constantly practicing swordwork against each other with bits of wood. Even in this terrible city, there were many good people, and she tried to remember that.

"Do you know how much your mistake has cost me? I could have you hanged, if I liked. Do you know that?" A noblewoman built like a riding crop was towering over a cowering maid. It was not an uncommon scene, sadly, but Lyanna knew this noblewoman well. Selyse Florent, her fellow lady-in-waiting to Cersei. She ducked her head and walked up quietly behind Selyse.

"Headed to the garden?" Lyanna asked in a low tone.

"Ah!" Selyse started with surprise and whirled on Lyanna, the servant hastily curtsying and making her escape. "Lady Lyanna!" Selyse scolded. "You have scared me half to death!"

It took all of Lyanna's self control to resist smirking. Lyanna had always been short. The blood of the First Men was not the blood of giants. Selyse, meanwhile, was very nearly as tall as the King, towering over Lyanna by more than a foot, but still she reacted as if Lyanna were going to bite her. She contented herself by simply raising her eyebrow.. "You did not see because you did not look. You were not listening, either, else you would have heard me asked if you were headed to the garden."

"Yes, of course I am headed there, you know that." Selyse snapped waspishly. "Lord Mace and all the other Tyrells are already there."

Mace Tyrell had come to the Red Keep to visit his son. At least, that was the stated purpose, but Lyanna guessed that he also had some kind of scheme. It was the only reason to come to the city, really.

Selyse did not speak to her as they walked to the garden together. Lyanna did not complain of the silence.

The garden was a beautiful, if rather untidy affair. The King and Queen cared little enough for growing things, so the garden had never been set to rights, but still it was one of Lyanna's favorite places in the Red Keep. Beautiful harp music lilted over the castle walls. Likely Willas Tyrell, Lyanna thought.

"There you are! Sissy, come here!" The speaker was a slender blonde woman, who might have been called beautiful except for her spotty, pinched face.

Selyse's expression twisted angrily and she stalked over."Kyra, what are you shouting for?" She hissed at the shorter woman.

The blonde waggled her eyebrows. "Monford Velaryon came to court yesterday to speak with the Master of Ships."

Selyse drew back in shock. "Kyra Frey, you did not. Kyra, he is a Lord. You defile..."

Kyra only laughed. "Not Monford. His uncle. Ser Orys."

Selyse gasped. "Kyra!" She looked to the side anxiously before whispering. "Kyra, he is nearly fifty!"

"That just makes him experienced." Kyra stated nonchalantly. "And besides, for all your prudishness, I know that you've wondered what it would feel like to run you hands through that flowing white Valyrian hair, to feel that pale, smooth skin touching yours..."

"I do not." Selyse spat.

Kyra barked a laugh. "No, I suppose you just wonder at what it must be like to get fucked at all."

Lyanna let out a tiny breath. They could continue like this for hours. For all her protests, Selyse liked sharing company with Kyra, and Kyra enjoyed Selyse's company in return. They each made the other feel superior, and their daily strife was something precious to them. Lyanna looked around absently for a distraction.

The garden was filling with people slowly. Various administrators and lesser lords and knights. She spied what she assumed were the Tyrell party a little ways away, and more would be coming soon. After all, the Queen and likely the King would be here soon, and neither of those persons could go anywhere in the Red Keep without a dozen hangers-on attaching themselves. The Red Keep as a whole, was a great stinking carcass, every inhabitant trying to get its own cut of meat. She would have scorned them, except that she was one of them.

"Well, Lady Winter, do you agree?"

"What was the question?" Lyanna asked, her expression neutral.

Selyse leaned in like a great, hateful stork. "This one," Selyse spat, pointing at Kyra, "was insisting the most-"

"It feels better to fuck the haughty types." Kyra stated blandly. "The Velaryons can't exhale without telling you that they're of the blood of Old Valyria, but if they should condescend to dipping their wick they squeak and squeal like the rest of them."

"And you're asking me..." Lyanna raised an eyebrow.

"Well, do you agree?" Kyra asked, smiling. Lyanna sucked in a breath. They were bringing that up again. The women did, from time to time. Part of it was genuine curiosity, but the other half was her own fault. She did not like either of them, and so she stayed aloof. They did not like her haughtiness, and so they took every chance to bring her down to their level. She could ignore them for the most part, but with respect to Rhaegar... There were a thousand and one thoughts that crowded her mind all at once, filling her with guilt, shame, anger, pain. Rhaegar's smiling face flashed before her, then the face of him frowning determinedly. The Tower of Joy, he had called it, but once the joy was gone... She… She would not think those thoughts. Her face was flint and her eyes were ice. She was of the Old Blood and these southerners could do nothing to her.

She released the breath she had been holding, and made eye contact with Kyra. "I've always imagined that to lay with someone you loved would be best." She paused. "But if you're referring to Rhaegar, I cannot say that I thought much of our difference in rank. "

It was true enough. She had gone with Rhaegar willingly, at first, but his title had never meant much to her. Indeed, nothing about Rhaegar had meant that much to her, beyond the fact that he would have her. She had been determined to not be a maid when they sent her to Robert, that they might at least marry on equal terms. She had been furious that her father had cared nothing for her opinion and felt the need to exert her own will. She had been disgusted that her betrothed would call her "sweet" and had aimed to disabuse him of that notion. She had not run away for love, she had run away for thrice-damned foolish pride. She saw that now, for all the good it did her. The fool of a woman who had done those things had died in Dorne.

Lyanna felt a smile touch her lips. If that Lyanna had died in Dorne, was this her version of the seven hells?

Kyra scowled at her smile. "You call yourself a peer of a prince? Seven above, you're the haughtiest of them all."

"Both of you, stop this chatter!" Selyse insisted. "Some of us have reputations worth keeping."

"Oh I know I do." Kyra's eyes glittered. "You both disdain me, but I shall be the first to marry of us three, and you all know it. Selyse has the mind and body of a woman thrice her age, and I think Lyanna will find that men prefer women who have a pulse. You may disdain me, but I am like to marry better than you."

There was just enough of Lyanna's foolish younger self in Kyra to make the woman insufferable. She knew that she should say nothing. She should be above getting entangled with these two. But the words spilled out without her conscious thought. "Tell me, Kyra." Her voice was low and cutting. "Is House Frey a brothel, that its women boast of being used by lordly men?"

Kyra's face flushed hot, her eyes tightening even as she maintained her smile. She opened her mouth, but then Cersei was approaching and all eyes turned to her. The queen looked radiant as ever. She was beautiful, Lyanna knew, more beautiful than Lyanna herself or anyone else in the Seven Kingdoms. Yet today the Queen wore a sour expression that lended her an unpleasant air. She often wore that expression, these days.

Lyanna curtsied with the others as Cersei approached. The Queen forced a smile and nodded at them. "At least the bard I brought in seems to be somewhat passable." Cersei remarked after minor pleasantries had been exchanged. "Come on then, let us go over and make Willas introduce us."

As they walked over, young Willas Tyrell stood and walked over to them, smiling kindly. Lyanna allowed a small smile of her own to appear in response. Willas was a tall, good-looking young man, with long dark hair and the body of a man training for war. He was a few years Lyanna's junior, but he had the manners and mind of a man twice his age and she always appreciated his company.

He was accompanied by a great overfilled wineskin of a man that had to be Lord Mace Tyrell, and an older woman who was as sharp as Mace was dull. There were a dozen other courtiers around them. Royce, Florent, Morrow, Massey, Krats… She knew all their names, but she paid them little enough mind. Along with everyone else, her eyes were on the Tyrells and upon the Queen.

Willas bowed. "Ah, my Queen, you do us honor. This is my father, Lord Mace Tyrell, and my grandmother, Lady Olenna Tyrell." The Queen of Thorns, that was her other name, though she was no rose at all. "Lord Father, I am sure you recognize our fair queen, Cersei Baratheon?"

Cersei's calm smile that did not reach her eyes. "We are happy that you have come to meet us here. I see that many introductions have already been made. These with me are the Ladies Lyanna Stark, Kyra Frey, and of course Selyse Florent, who you already know. " Lyanna did not need to look to know exactly the sort of expression Selyse and Kyra were wearing at the moment. Selyse would be preening at the compliment, while Kyra's hateful eyes would betray her as she smiled at Willas. The young man had spurned her advances, and she did not take such a slight lightly.

For her part, Lyanna did not make any expression at all, giving Willas a simple nod after she had finished curtsying. The conversation turned to silly, pointless things after that. Cersei had brought some renowned bard into the garden. They listened to the music, made light conversation. Food was brought out to them, then they prepared to walk about the garden.

Lyanna stood up abruptly, happy to be allowed to move again. All she did these days was sit. To think that she had once complained when she had not been allowed to wear her sword about Winterfell. Now even a simple walk seemed like release.

"Hold a moment, Lady Lyanna," Willas interrupted. "I would ask that you do not leave with the rest." He smiled as though apologizing. "For some time I've admired that great white gyrfalcon in the Mews by the godswood, I was amazed to hear it was yours."

Lyanna moved to reply, but Cersei spoke over her. "You should not underestimate her, Willas, our Winter Lady is quite a wild creature." That earned a pleasant laugh from the assembled party.

Willas laughed along good-naturedly. "Indeed," he said. "A still lake hides many depths. But what of it, Lady Lyanna? If you are amiable, I would speak of hawking with you, and what better time than when the others are taking their walk? Someone must sit here with my grandmother, and why should it not be us? Our talk of hawking would bore these others to tears."

She nodded. Kyra and Selyse had been especially on edge today. Had something happened? No matter. "I should be happy to speak with you." She paused. "Unless, my queen, you have need of me?"

Cersei forced another smile. "No, indeed not. Indeed, I am glad Willas thought of it. The Tyrells are our guests after all, and it is our duty to entertain them." Lyanna blinked at that. A year ago Cersei would not have been so polite or tactful. The cat was learning, it seemed. Lyanna wondered if that was a good thing.

She sat as the majority of the party left them, leaving just Olenna and Willas and herself. Lyanna let herself relax somewhat, smiling a little and raising an eyebrow at Willas. "So, what is this? I've had Brighteyes for nearly a year. If you had wanted to ask me, you could have done so any time."

Willas smiled. "Perhaps I was nervous? A fine bird can intimidate a man."

"And which fine bird was it that intimidated you?"

Why, the gyrfalcon." Willas' feigned confusion turned to false realization. "Lady Lyanna! Surely you do not think I am so uncouth?"

"A shame you are not. I rather like the idea of being compared to a falcon."

"It's certainly worked well enough for the Arryns for the last few thousand years." Olenna commented, her hands folded in her lap. "The boy does want to talk hawking with you, make no mistake, but a man can have more than one reason for a thing."

"Indeed." Willas leaned in, his elbows on his knees. The young man's eyes were now deadly serious. "I have invited the king to go on a short hawking trip, only a few weeks into the Kingswood, and if you would be interested, I would be happy for you to come as well. It won't be a massive affair, just three weeks and a dozen lords and ladies." He paused. "I understand you would have to get leave from the Queen."

"Has the King actually agreed to this?"

"He's a damned fool if he doesn't." Olenna stated, causing Willas and Lyanna both to straighten. "What, can't a king be a fool like any other man?" The old woman shook her head. "I've lived through four kings, and they were all fools at times. Some more than others. But this hawking trip is the kind of thing a young king needs to be doing most of all. Everyone says the King is just and fair and those are good things, but justice alone never kept a realm together."

Willas coughed. "Lady Lyanna, out of respect for you, I wish to be frank: my grandmother and I are concerned about the state of the realm. Our family was never going to be a favorite in Stannis' court. We always knew that. We picked the wrong side in the war, and the King has reason to hold a grudge against us."

Lyanna did not comment. The King collected grudges like some men collected books. His library included grudges for or against most of the lords of the realm. He had reasons, no doubt. Stannis always had reasons, but that did little to set her at ease.

"I want to change that." Willas continued, his voice low. "The Reach has always been a hotbed of sedition, and only the Iron Throne has allowed for it to know peace for so long. Stannis' dynasty is young, and if it is to prosper, I am convinced he needs to know that we support him."

"Trust is earned." Lyanna stated. "You won't gain that through a party."

"A man can't earn the trust of a man who doesn't even know him."

"This is why Mace came to King's Landing? To arrange a hawking trip?" A nervous glance passed between Willas and his grandmother. "This isn't Mace's plan, is it?"

"Not precisely." Willas coughed. "Father has some design of arranging a marriage to the Iron Throne. One of his cousins to the King's younger brother."

"He'd sooner marry Renly to a Florent."

Willas winced. "I know Hawking trip has nothing to do with it. The Hand and I have been speaking about the need for more… relaxed interactions with the King for some time now. The only reason you're hearing about it now is that my grandmother thought that we should invite you."

Lyanna suppressed a frown. Why would the Hand be talking over such a matter with one of the king's own subjects? She had known that Lord Arryn and the King had been arguing, but to go behind his back? "So, what then, you are plotting with the Hand to help the King make friends?"

"Well," Willas frowned. "Yes."

"And these people you have gathered. Who are they?"

"A mix. Some from houses that could be made into loyal supporters of the throne. Some from houses that are already supporters of the throne."

"And which are you?"

"Neither. I'm a hostage. But perhaps that could be changed."

"Because Stannis does not take hostages from his loyal supporters?" Just a hint of bitterness entered her voice. More than she had intended.

"You're no hostage." Olenna tutted. "You're a soft-hearted girl who's attached to a bastard. Your family would be better off if you forgot the boy existed and went back to Winterfell."

"The boy is my family." Lyanna said, her voice sinking low.

"If you say so, then it is so," Olenna replied, seemingly unconscious of the offense she'd offered. "But while you're here, you might as well make use of your time. I wonder if you're aware that people view you as your Lord brother's agent here in the south? If the word my grandson brings me is true, you've spent two years here in the heart of the seven kingdoms doing nothing at all."

"I am not my brother." Lyanna was surprised by the venom with which she said it. "I act only for myself. Although where southern entanglements are concerned, we are united. Neither of us want anything to do with them, beyond our loyalty to the King."

Willas frowned. "So you are not coming, then?"

Was she not? In truth, the trip sounded like the sort of thing she might have done in her youth. To be free of the stink of the city, to be away from the Queen and her people… she would like that. But to be away from Jon? It would only be a few weeks. Cersei had left her little Cyrenna alone for four times that. Elia, the nurses, and everyone else would manage Jon well enough. He was a well-behaved lad. Even when Lyanna was gone, he would not cry, she knew that much.

And then, there was the purpose of the hunt. Perhaps she could speak with the King, make him reconsider his ruling. It would be dangerous, but perhaps… perhaps...

"I suppose I will come." She allowed. "But mostly for the hawking."

The day went on from there. She and Willas talked happily of falcons for some time. Cersei and the others returned. Cersei trotted out her little princess for everyone to see. When Lyanna returned to the Maidenvault, the hour was late and she was tired. Richard Horpe was on duty then, impatiently pacing back and forth like a caged rat. She gave him a curt nod and went to her family's chambers, tossing open the door.

"One of those days again?" Lyanna turned, and saw Elia Martell, sitting in an alcove with a book in one hand and a wineglass in the other. Little Jon was asleep with his head on her lap. At the foot of the couch was a massive bouquet of flowers.

Lyanna let out a long, drawn-out sigh. "You know the answer, otherwise you wouldn't have asked." She gestured to Jon's sleeping form. "He insisted on staying up again?"

Elia hummed affirmatively. "I was reading to him, but alas, it seems as though Natural History is not of much interest to him." She sipped her wine, nodding to the flowers. "Your lover sent another gift for you. Flowers, this time."

Lyanna sighed. "What am I going to do with him?"

"Marry him, I imagine. He'll wear you down eventually."

"I'm not interested in marrying."

"Jon won't be a babe forever. I doubt you plan on following him to the Wall?"

They had had this conversation a hundred times. Wendel Manderly was a fine enough man, she supposed, but he was fat and uncouth and cared only for feasting and fighting. His attentions were gratifying, but she had little interest in a man who only courted her at his father's request.

Lyanna sat down and ran a hand through her hair. "Elia, I tell you, Kyra and Selyse are getting worse by the day."

Elia sipped her wine. "Oh dear, that sounds terrible." She set down her book and wine and leaned in. "You must tell me all about it."


	13. Chapter 12: Salt and Steel

"I am the dragon!" The little dragonseed screamed, his pale features a bright pink. "You serve a false king! A usurper! Bow to your rightful king and I might show you mercy yet."

Davos reached into his sack and the child quieted to a whimper suddenly. "W-what are you doing?"

The sun had not yet dawned, but here beneath the deck of Black Betha it would hardly have made any difference. Davos' young son Allard stood behind him, carefully sheltering a candle from the drafts. There were a few of his men in the room as well, watching silently from the shadows.

"Viserys," Davos stated. "Your life up to this point has not been pleasant, and it has been no fault of your own. But what comes next is your choice."

The boy shrunk in on himself. "I have no choice." He spat to the side. "Your usurper will do what he likes, and his traitor knights will push me wherever he directs."

Davos nodded. "You are going to the Maidenvault with your brother's children, that much is certain. But what you make of it, that is up to you."

"A dragon cannot be chained," Viserys stated haughtily.

"Then what's the Dragonpit for?" Allard snorted.

"I am the King," Viserys hissed. "Don't you dare speak to me like that."

Davos sighed. Words like that would send him to the Wall, should he speak them in King's Landing. "You're no king, Viserys. Stannis is King."

"I am-"

"-A boy of ten, who lives only because the king of Westeros is a better man than your Father." Viserys' face contorted with anger, but Davos continued, a dangerous edge entering his voice. "I said you'd have a choice, Viserys, and so you shall. You can choose whether Stannis and his vassals are villains or the rightful lords of the realm."

"You're usurpers. You're oathbreakers." Viserys savored each word as he said it. "You're traitors who should be hanged."

Davos nodded. "Very well." Two strong men reached out and grabbed Viserys by the arms, pulling him forcefully. "Unhand me!" the boy cried, struggling with all his might, even as he was born to the deck. Viserys' chest was pushed over the railing, his legs kicking helplessly against the deck. If the fool boy kicked harder, he would have pushed himself over the edge.

Davos had a pang of conscience at what he was about to do. This sort of brutality had never been his trade, although he had seen it done often enough. Cruelty was a strange cloak to wear, but he was Stannis' villain, and wear it he must. In any case, he would not be doing the boy any kindness to allow him to continue as he was.

"LET ME GO!" Viserys yelled.

Davos stepped behind him. "Look into those waves, boy. If I tell these men to drop you into them, they will. The waters are calm and cold here, it'd take hours for you to drown completely. Every time you managed to resurface, you'd grow a little more tired, your lungs would be a little more full of water. You'd cough up water twice for every gasping breath you took. You'd be cold and numb all over, and your eyes would burn with the salt."

Viserys' neck struggled to look away from the ocean. "Y-You can't."

"Can't I?" The men pushed him further over the edge.

"The King's orders..."

"Ah, so he's a King now?" Davos jerked his head and the men pulled Viserys back onto the boat, depositing him like a wet sack on the deck.

The boy sat there, gasping, his expression sullen and tormented. What a poor, foolish boy.

"I'm not going to drown you." Davos allowed. "But if Stannis is a usurper in your eyes, then he must kill you. You are no infant, Viserys, and you have fewer friends in Westeros than your niece and nephew do. Every day, men howl at the King, telling him to take your head. Think carefully, Viserys, before you call King Stannis a usurper again. It is only by his rule that your life is spared."

"And what of my sister?" Viserys' tone was sullen now, defeated. "What of my mother's crown?"

"That crown is a curse," Davos stated. "So long as it is yours, you'll remain a king without a kingdom, without an army, and without vassals. You'll be a mark of derision across the whole world."

"I would have subjects. There are still some who were loyal to my Father." Viserys' words were proud, but lacking in conviction.

"How many, do you think? I do not know what Darry told you, but the truth of your father's crimes was worse than even the rebels realized. No one speaks well of him. All have bent the knee to Stannis. Even members of Aerys' Kingsguard have bowed. The Kingslayer is hailed as a hero. The few who would still support you are scattered, leaderless, and few in number, their loyalty more akin to madness than anything else. I could release you on the streets of King's Landing, and in a whole year you would find no one to back your cause. Your crown is naught more than a piece of metal."

"Mine it is, though." Viserys' eyes flashed with a spark of defiance. "You took it from me."

"Aye, and if that crown meant anything, I'd be King."

"It was my mother's."

"Aye." Davos said no more. There was no more to say.

The boy looked down. "And what about Daenerys?" His voice had become very small.

"She cannot go to the Wall or to the maesters, but she may go to the faith. For the next three years you will be together, and possibly after. She may even marry."

"To some traitor knight who fought against my brother."

"And then she will choose, whether that knight is a traitor or a man of honor. Just as you will decide now who is the rightful King. Again, I caution you: be careful what you choose. You will never sit on the Iron Throne, but if you are not careful you may die before it."

The second week at sea was easier. Once in a while, Davos caught an angry light in Viserys' eyes, but in general the boy became quiet, subdued. Some days he would sulk in the hold of the ship. Other days he would venture out and hold conversation with Davos and some of the other knights, asking about the Maidenvault and his cousins.

It did not matter, but Davos at least held hope that the boy would not speak of open rebellion.

On the second day of the second week, they weathered a minor squall, and both Viserys and Daenerys became ill.

On the fourth day of the second week, they passed a tiny rock in the Narrow Sea, an barren island men called the Oyster. Not far from that place they encountered a great fleet, coming out of the sunset towards them. A dozen longships and galleys and a great three-decked dromond named Hammer of the Waters pulled alongside them and turned to match their course. Davos allowed the great dromond to draw near to them and send over a small boat. Ser Jason Mallister nimbly climbed onto the deck. Meeting Davos here had been no mean feat of seamanship, and Davos was happy to see him.

"So you caught our wandering princelings, did you?" Jason Mallister was a tall, thin man with hard eyes and a bright smile.

"Aye, Lord Mallister." Davos merely nodded in reply.

"Ha!" Jason clapped Davos on the back in greeting. "Ah, this is a fine thing to celebrate! Where are they?"

"Below decks. They have taken ill in the crossing."

"Well, take care. We cannot have them dying on us, now can we?"Jason smiled grimly again. "I do not care for the sort of business you deal in, Rat, but I love victory too much to hate you."

"There is honor in serving the King, even if that service is a dishonorable one."

Jason nodded. They had had this exchange many times. "So, Lord Rat, what is your next great mission?"

"A Master of Whispers who answered that question would deserve to be hanged. What of your mission in the Stepstones?"

"Unending," Mallister stated with relish. "I had to give command to my younger brother for the moment, lest my affairs at the capital and at home grow dusty with neglect. But rarely does a week go by where we do not bring some pirate or smuggler to justice."

Davos nodded. Some of those men had been business associates. Not many, though. The best smugglers had taken their skills elsewhere or entered Davos' own employ. "Have the Lyseni made any trouble?"

"They aren't going to war, and we don't trade much with them anyway. What trouble could they make for us?"

Davos did not know about that. There was trade with Lys, and more trade with Lys' close allies, who also might be annoyed at Mallister's encroachment. Knights and Lords always underestimated the importance of trade. Even so, better to continue the campaign.

"It's good practice for the men, you know." Jason stated, echoing Davos' thoughts. "We'll need them good and ready when the Ironborn turn on us. Oh, do not give me that look. The Ironborn are as treacherous as they are foolish."

"They supported us in the rebellion."

"They raided the Reach for us. I'm sure that was a great sacrifice. They'd have raided the North if it held anything of value for them, or the Riverlands if they thought they could get away with it. Once the Ironborn get a taste of reaving, they're sure to try again. I hope that your ratmen are keeping their noses keen for trouble from that quarter. This new Lord Balon's twice the villain his father was."

Davos was not so sure that Balon's father had been a villain. The man had died in the rebellion, fighting against Targaryen rule. Still, Jason was right to mistrust Balon. "Your men have been conducting surprise searches on their trading cogs."

"Of course we are." Jason didn't even try to deny it. "The Ironborn are a race of pirates, thieves, and reavers. They don't understand or value things like honesty and hard work. You're telling me that they aren't all smugglers? There are no honest tradesmen from those islands."

"In my experience, there are not many honest tradesmen at all. Everyone smuggles something from time to time. But the more you harry their trade, the stronger the factions that support reaving become." His men had intercepted a message from Rodrik Harlaw to one of his relatives worrying over this matter exactly.

"Good. Maybe they'll rebel, then, and we'll have an excuse to scour the island clear."

Davos had nothing to say to that.

The Targaryens were moved to the Hammer of the Waters as they approached Dragonstone. Stannis had turned that ancient holding of the Targaryens into a mighty fortress of the realm. The King's Fleet docked here between their conquests, as did the few small boats that Davos commanded. Maester Cressen served here, working with Davos' eldest son to relay messages all across Westeros. Davos made sure that the boy and his little sister were allowed on deck as they passed near the fortress. Best for them to see the power of King Stannis with their own two eyes.

They came to King's Landing the next day near sunset, smoke rising from the city like steam from a pile of fresh manure in winter. King's Landing was disgusting, foul, and yet Davos still found her beautiful. It was not as large as most of the Free Cities, nor as clean as a place like White Harbor, but King's Landing was his home. Praise the Seven that this great, stinking, awful city had not been allowed to burn. A hundred of the Stormguard were present to escort them at the docks, along with a heavy carriage. Good. The city had a hunger for Targaryen blood these days, and if the people should see the children, he feared what they might do. Not even the Stormguard could hold back the rage of King's Landing.

Still, the procession to the Red Keep was hedged in on all sides by shouts and jeers. Daenerys kept trying to crawl to the window to see what all the noise was. Viserys held onto her tightly, flattening his back against the seat of the carriage. It seemed like yesterday that Viserys' birth had been news for celebration and feasting in the city. These children were so young.

Jon Arryn greeted them at the gates of the Red Keep, his great heavy robe fluttering gently in the breeze. Davos dismounted and kneeled to him.

"I was pleased to hear news of your success, Lord Davos." Jon stated. "Rise, ser. The King will be very happy to see the last of the Targaryens put away into the Maidenvault when he returns."

"He is not here?" Stannis would have come to see this thing done, he felt sure.

"No," Jon stated. "He is on a mission of diplomacy at the moment. Lady Lyanna, Willas Tyrell, and many others prevailed upon him to go on a hawking expedition into the Kingswood."

Davos sucked in a deep breath. What Master of Whispers was he, that the Hand had to tell him the King's whereabouts? He did not like feeling unprepared. But that had been the risk he had accepted when he had decided to oversee this task personally. His network of spies was centered here, not in Braavos, and all news he received there would be much delayed. In any case, he trusted that his son and trusted friends would be watching for threats. No, he had little to fear. It was only his pride that was in danger. He exhaled. "Well, the children aren't going anywhere. There's no real worry if Stannis is not here."

Viserys and his sister looked very small indeed as the knights of the Kingsguard escorted them to the Maidenvault. The boy looked up pleadingly at Ser Barristan, and the old knight just shook his head sadly in reply.

They were but thirty paces away from the Maidenvault when a piercing shriek tore through the air.

The Kingsguard rushed into action, scooping up Viserys and Daenerys and ushering them into the vault. Others followed Jon and Davos and Jason, swords drawn, as they ventured deeper in.

Elia Martell crouched in the center of one of the rooms, wailing piteously. She whirled on them as they entered, her skin stained dark with tears. "Where is he?" She hissed. "What have you done with my little Aegon?"


	14. Chapter 13: More than One Reason

"I've come too far South, Lyanna, I tell you," Wendel's fat face dripped with sweat, trickling down from his broad hat all the way down to his double chin. "This heat will kill me where I stand if I do not find any shade."

Wendel and Lyanna were walking through an open field in the Kingswood near where the hawking party was practicing. A simple hawking trip became a massive affair for the kingdom when Stannis was involved. Servants, Stormguard, tradesmen, and nobles all buzzed about the field as though it were a fairgrounds. It was rather warm for a spring day, even considering how far south they were. "Come now," Lyanna replied. "Surely you are not afraid of a little sun?"

"Fear is for lesser men," Wendel scoffed. "But so far south as we are, I am rather a Merling out of water. I fear that should I linger here too long, I will be cooked."

Lyanna smiled politely. "Why did you come on this trip then? Surely it was not compulsory?"

Wendel smiled. "Your company is reason enough for me. I should think it would be reason enough for any man."

"And I am grateful for yours. But there is no need to be so gallant, ser. No man ever has only one reason for a thing."

"He might if a woman is involved. A man in love will do anything for the target of his affections."

"You mean, a man will do anything he would otherwise have done already, but say that he did it for love." Wendel moved to protest, but Lyanna pressed on. "I've seen men win tournaments for their true love. I've never seen a man lose a tournament for his love."

Wendel laughed. "Of course! What glory is there in failure? That would be like presenting a bouquet of crushed roses!"

"Ah, but crushed roses smell the sweetest."

"A fair point! The image of a crushed rose, that was a poor choice on my part." He cleared his throat. "But to speak of flowers, what reason does the winter rose of the North have to meet here with all these southern flowers?"

Lyanna's eyes cut sharply to inspect Wendel's face, ice rushing through her veins. A Winter Rose, he called her? Did he know what he had just implied? His features were calm, unaware of the insult he had paid her. She let out a breath. Wendel had likely never heard that story, or else he had not made the connection.

The Winter Rose was what some called the Stark maid of legend that had run away from home to be with Bael, the King Beyond the Wall. She had been called many names in the capital, but that one rung true, and so she hated it more than all the others. But there was no use in getting angry with Wendel. He had probably heard some lout in the castle call her that name and had thought it a sweet compliment.

"I have no political interests," Lyanna managed, "Hawking is pleasant and I have not left King's Landing for years. I have no other design at this point in my life other than my own contentment."

"That is not good news," Wendel stating, shaking his head. "Hunger, Lyanna, is what makes men do great things. Pigs and sheep do not desire greatness, but men are hungry."

Lyanna laughed, causing Wendel to start. Had he really just called her a pig? And yet, she could not be insulted, since now she knew that his courtly mask had dropped. Wendel was a fine, gallant man, but around her, he sometimes put on airs that did not suit him. "Hunger, Ser Wendel? You have known it in your time?"

"Of course!" Wendel stated. "It is always fat men who feel the hunger most keenly. How else do they become fat? A starving man wants only enough food to live. A fat man wants all the food in the world."

Lyanna thought about that a moment. "I suppose I can agree with that," she said eventually. "At the end of the war, I wanted little indeed."

"And now? Do you again have appetite for something more?"

She did. But Wendel need not concern himself with her plans for the present. She simply smiled to him. "I suppose that I must leave the greatness to you."

"I had best be about greatness, then. I see a man over there from Gulltown with whom I must speak."

This was Wendel's true purpose. The man had been sent by his father to court her, but also to speak with nobility who controlled trade into White Harbor. A man always had more than one purpose for a thing. In any case, he was only here socially; Wendel did not keep a hawk. "Well, if you are off to speak of trade, I will not detain you. The skies are calling to me."

He bowed awkwardly, his shirt bunching up around his neck as he did so, and they parted ways.

Finally alone as she walked, she took a moment to collect her thoughts. Winter Rose. That had been another of Cersei's inventions. The Queen did not know the truth of the name. She could not have. Lyanna had told no one but Ned that she had been willing at first. Cersei suspected, however, and there were enough fools in the Red Keep who would believe the story without proof. She could see Cersei's sly smile in front of her now, knowing, cruel. Lyanna wondered what she said to Stannis when they were alone together. Did the King suspect that she had gone willingly with Rhaegar? Had he sent his Rat to sniff out whether she had any loyalties to the Dragons? Would Barristan have known? Davos Seaworth's gentle, implacable eyes rose before her and she shuddered, despite the warmth.

Enough. See only victory. Do not give defeat a place. If she doubted that her goal was possible, it might as well be. This trip was only the first step of thousands, and Cersei's smirking face could not be allowed to stand in her way. There was no proof that could condemn her, and they could do nothing to her even if there was.

Stannis' party was not far ahead. Willas' great golden eagle was wheeling overhead. The massive beast dwarfed Stannis' little goshawk. Even Brighteyes, the largest gyrfalcon Lyanna had ever seen, was only half the size of Willas' Farwind. She mounted the horse they had provided her, fetched her bird from the mews, and rode to meet them.

"Ah, Lady Lyanna comes to join us!" Willas greeted her with a smile as she approached, turning his horse to the side to face her. Willas looked as well as ever. Young, handsome, bright. She smiled to think what a handsome man he would be in time. Stannis loomed behind him like a thundercloud, his lean face somber and unwelcoming. The King was scarcely older than Lyanna, but looked half again his age, with faint lines beginning to trace their way across his face.

"Apologies for my lateness, your Grace, Willas," she allowed, bowing to each of them in turn. "I see that Farwind is already in the air. Are you going to be making more sport for us today?" Willas had somehow taught his great eagle to go after larger prey. He had even set the bird on a startled young doe the previous day.

"Perhaps," Willas allowed with a knowing smile. "Perhaps if you return the favor."

Lyanna smiled and tucked a stray strand of hair beside her ear. Brighteyes was the most responsive bird Lyanna had ever seen. She could make her do anything she wanted. She would stay calm without a hood on, fly to whichever man she pointed, and let strange men touch her. Benjen had done a marvelous job training her.

"Willas already 'making sport,'" Stannis stated flatly. "Hawking is the hunting of birds, and is sport. Your other efforts take it beyond that into the realm of mummery."

Lyanna drew in a breath. If one of her brothers or Willas had said such a thing, she would have taken it for a jape. But Stannis was King and did not jape. She released her breath in a rush. "Even so, your Grace, is there anything wrong with a bit of mummery?"

Stannis did not reply. He had not smiled at their earlier 'sport' in the days previous, but he neither had he objected. Had he been silently resenting them all week? Lyanna's eyes went to Willas'. His face was as unreadable as Lyanna's own, but something of an understanding passed between them.

"Your Grace," Willas slowly added. "I apologize if I gave offense with my showmanship."

"None was taken," Stannis stated curtly, his jaw clenching forcefully. "Now, since Lady Lyanna is here, we should get the hunt started."

They rode in a large group, spread out through the woods as they moved. Even the King's' bad mood could not dampen her spirits today. All her plans might be for naught, but the joy of riding again was enough to renew her.

She pulled her horse close to the King. This was a less formal setting, so such a thing was permitted, even if the Stormguard and the Kingsguard clustered around them. "My King," she began with uncertainty. She was no diplomat. But she must try. Her Jon deserved that much. And in any case, what did she have to fear? The King was even worse at conversation than she was. "My King, I fear that this hunting trip is rather a tedious affair for you."

Stannis did not turn to face her. "I am not given to hawking as a performance for strangers," he said definitely. "I continue the practice only because it is a relief from the snakes and lickspittles that plague me."

She laughed at that. "Is that how you see us, your Grace?"

Stannis half-turned to her, his frown deepening. "Perhaps not. But do not take me for a fool, Lady Lyanna. I know well enough why you are here."

"A woman can have more than one reason for a thing, Your Grace," Lyanna replied, keeping her voice light as much as was possible. She supposed that she had not been half as clever as she had thought. But if the King knew her reasons, perhaps that was a good thing. If manners were a shield, blunt honesty was a warhammer. "My Jon poses no threat, and I would convince you of that, but riding and hawking are reason enough to leave my son behind, at least for a moon. Besides, what great evil is there in knowing the important men of the realm better? No doubt you have similar designs."

Stannis clenched his jaw. "It galls me. Loyalty is owed and trust is earned. Everything else is wind when blood begins to flow."

"If House Stark has not earned your trust by now I hardly can guess what more you would have us do." She willed her jaw shut, cursing her own glib tongue. But Ned had given Stannis his crown and asked for nothing in return. What business did Stannis Baratheon have insulting the honor of a man like that?

"Your brother is loyal. Loyal to Robert's memory." Stannis scowled. "We both know who he would have preferred on the Iron Throne. Robert is dead and I am a king, and still, his shadow hangs over me."

"And why should Ned prefer you as King?" Lyanna replied hotly, her face reddening even before she finished speaking. Twice now she had spoken without thought, but there was no retreating now. "Robert was like blood to Ned. He broke a realm for my brother's vengeance. You have never spoken to my brother but to tell him what he owed you, and the one thing he asked of you, which was his right, you withheld from him."

"Is this what you think it means to rule?" Stannis snarled. "To buy loyalty with reckless favoritism? Or is it merely Robert's excess that you loved him for? Should I drown myself in wine and bury myself in a pile of whores?"

"I did not say that."

The Stormguard and the rest of the party had pulled away from the barbarous conversation. The king rode in stormy silence, refusing to reply. Lyanna did not ride away, but neither did she move to speak. This conversation had become dangerous, and she needed to choose her words carefully.

"My brother loved yours," she eventually said, her voice low and quiet. "But do not think that his love was blind. Some men praise other men for drinking and whoring, but my brother saw it for what it was. Robert may have been a great king, he may have been a poor one, but that had nothing to do with my brother's bond with him. As to me, I was betrothed to him when I was only four and ten but even then I knew what his appetites would mean for our marriage. I feared Robert, your Grace."

The king continued in silence for a time. They had nearly come to the hill from which they planned their hunt. Just before they stopped, he looked her in the eyes. "It was beneath me to offer insult as I did," he said, his words stiff but genuine.

A sliver of a smile spread over her face without her prompting. An apology from Stannis Baratheon? That was a rare gift indeed. She shook her head. "It was beneath me to respond as I did," She stated hurriedly.

Willas Tyrell had been lagging behind, speaking with several of his attendants. Now he caught up to them, his great eagle perched on one arm. "The Seven favor us with clear skies, your Grace. I think we shall have a fine hunt today."

The King did not reply immediately, merely looking out over the woods. He sucked in a deep breath of air and nodded. "Clear skies, yes." He turned to Willas. His face was as dour as ever, but Lyanna noted that he held his head a little higher than he had before. "Come on then, get a hood over your bird. I want to see mine fly before noonday."  
-


	15. Chapter 14: Dragon Soup

"I have made no mistakes!" Santagar yelled. The Dornish Kingsguard's face was a rictus of grief, as though it had been his own child that had been taken. "A dozen of those maids were coming and going, but I knew all of them. They were the same servants that have always worked here. The fault is not mine! The Spider must have tunnels in the Maidenvault."

Davos sucked in a breath of air. Everyone knew the stories, that Maegor the Cruel had filled the Red Keep with trapped secret tunnels, and killed the men who had built them. The Maidenvault had been built later, but there was at least one tunnel that led into it. Five of the best thieves in the city had searched for three months and had only found that one tunnel. Davos could only pray that there were not more.

"You will know the names of every person who came in and out of this vault, then?" Davos had considered confining the Maidenvault's staff to the building as well, but the idea had seemed too extreme. Now he wished he had.

Santagar's eyes burned. "Yes," He growled. "I know their names. Twenty of them were coming and going, getting the new dragons' quarters ready. I know every one of their fat smallfolk faces. They are all of the people your man chose."

Davos nodded. "Very well." He would have to interview them all, of course. He looked down the passageway. Elia was in a room at the end, weeping uncontrollably. Davos' face tightened. A crying woman was a tragedy, a thing that demanded a response from a man. But he was not a man. He was a Rat, and however much she cried, Elia Martell was alike to be a traitor as anyone. "My thanks, Ser Aron." He turned to Barristan and the other assembled Kingsguard. "I fear I must now beg your leave, sers."

Barristan nodded. "We will put aside all of our other duties for now. The Queen and the King's daughter must be secured, as well as the rest of these children." He paused a moment, his eyes deadly serious. "Find the boy, Lord Seaworth," Barristan pleaded. Elia's son and daughter were like grandchildren to him.

Davos bowed and made his exit. He would make no promises yet, to Barristan or to anyone.

Grandmaester Pycelle appeared at his elbow as he walked through the courtyard. He slacked his pace momentarily so as not to exhaust the man. "Word has been sent," Pycelle offered, "but we cannot send a raven directly. The King will know nothing of this matter for some time yet, and it will be longer still until he returns."

"If the King could be here in an hour, we still could not wait for him. Has the Hand been informed?"

"I believe so, yes."

"If you see him, tell him..." Davos paused. Lord Arryn would expect him to come to the Solar to discuss the issue first. But no, there was work to be done, and Davos had to do it. "Tell the Hand what I told you, and tell him that I have gone to work."

He left the Maester behind, only to see his oldest son coming towards him. "Dale!" he called out.

"Father, I heard-"

"Never mind that. Allard took a list of names from the Kingsguard. I want you to track everyone on that list down. They should all be here in the Red Keep still. Gather them in the Hall of Justice and get an account from each of them. Hold them there until I say otherwise. If you find anyone on the list that's missing, you know what to do."

Dale nodded mutely and walked quickly away. He was a good lad. Davos walked faster. Aegon was a good lad too, and whoever was doing this was more likely to get him killed than anything else. He waved over a contingent of the Stormguard and kept walking. Soon he walked along the dirty back-alleys that ran next to the wall. He pushed open the door of a deserted shack and walked over to the corner of the shack's single room, where a decrepit closet stood.

"If anyone comes out of this closet, you're to restrain them by any means necessary." Davos ordered the Guard. There were three exits to the tunnels outside the Red Keep that he knew of, and this was one. He would need a group of Stormguard at each…. He would need to close the gates to the keep as well, at least for now. There was a chance that Aegon was still in the Red Keep, and if possible it would be best to keep him there. But if the boy was already in the city, his efforts to seal the keep would be useless. Davos glowered. All choices might yet prove ill.

Two hours later, he was standing before Lord Arryn. "-That's all we know so far," He stated. "One of the maids, an older woman named Sindee, has gone missing, and it is to be assumed that she is the guilty party. My men are searching the city up and down for her."

Lord Arryn nodded. Even in such a troubled time, his face remained clear from worry. "You think she is still in the city?"

"Rhaenys claims to have seen the boy sleeping in his bed that morning, just a few hours before his absence was noted."

"Hardly a reliable witness."

"I believe her." She had been able to tell him which toys were on the floor around the bed and she could remember the color of the child's blankets. Children often concocted fanciful tales, but their imaginations were rarely so accurate. "In any case, I've sent word up and down the Kingsroad. Every merchant and pilgrim on the roads today will be searched."

Lord Arryn looked to Lord Mallister. "And the Blackwater Bay?"

"Airtight," Jason stated. "Anything larger than a bit of driftwood is being stopped. The dragonseed can't escape by water."

Davos shifted uncomfortably, which earned a raised eyebrow from Lord Arryn. "I do not think anyone will try Lord Mallister's blockade," Davos allowed. "So long as the sun is up."

Davos could feel Jason's eyes boring into the side of his head. "I suppose you'd know all about that, wouldn't you? You-"

"Lord Mallister." Jon's voice was gentle but firm.

Jason held his tongue.

Jon nodded. "Imry Florent?"

Imry stood at attention a few feet away, his feet square and his hands locked behind his back. The man had been rushed here from the Sept of Baelor, and it showed. His clothes were unkempt, and Davos could see some soot on his leggings from where he'd been kneeling. Davos appreciated that the man had not wasted time on his appearance before coming here. "The goldcloaks have been given a description of the boy, and of the servant. If they're in the city, we'll find them."

Davos doubted that the goldcloaks would turn up anything more than a few whores. There was nothing to do about that. The captain of the goldcloaks, Ser Semiv, was a good man chosen by the King himself, but one good man could only do so much in a sea of incompetence.

Jon smiled. "I trust that you will all do your duty. If you do not, the King will hear of it when he returns." Those simple words were as threatening as anything Jon could say, although for his part Davos was not worried. He had failed, no doubt, and that galled him, but King Stannis was not unreasonable. Even if he should bear the blame, there would be other chances for him to serve.

He bowed and retreated from the chamber. This portion of the Red Keep had been cleared of servants, as part of the Kingsguard's efforts to keep the queen and the princess safe. Davos would have told them that a multitude of servants was more security than a dozen Stormguard. With the passages so empty like this it would be easy for a man to slip through these halls unmarked.

"Lord Seaworth." A woman's voice, stern and commanding. Davos felt his spine turn to steel. He stopped in the hallway and turned.

"My Queen," he said, stiffly bowing.

The queen's green eyes had turned almost red. Lines of worry creased her fair brow. Some said she was the most beautiful woman in the seven kingdoms, and Davos supposed that she was as pretty as anyone else who bore that title, but today she looked haggard indeed.

"Your men's efforts have been focused in the city so far." It was a statement, not a question. "Is catching the dragonspawn more important to you than securing the royal family?"

"The royal family is the domain of the Kingsguard," Davos demurred. "The sort of men I employ are not suited to such a station."

Cersei sniffed. "On that second matter, we agree. But if there are tunnels beneath the Maidenvault that you didn't know of, then surely there are tunnels in the Red Keep as well." She tilted her head. "You have been lax in your duties, Lord Seaworth, and still you do not search out these tunnels."

"I searched out all the tunnels I could find," Davos lied. He had not searched them all out. Some were only large enough for children or dwarfs, and he would not employ children. Those tunnels ate men alive, and some had begun to claim they were haunted. The truth was worse: Not all of Varys' little birds had been cleared from their nest. His men had half-a-dozen skirmishes against those little monsters, each one bloody and desperate. Every day they expanded their hold in the tunnels, breaking stone and mortar to expand their reach, but telling Cersei all of this would do no good. "I could search a month more and not find another one. For the meantime you are well-guarded."

"Do not presume to tell me whether or not I am secure," Cersei stated cooly. "Or do you think I have forgotten how you told the King that the Dragonspawn were secure?"

"Even if some foreign agent makes it to your chambers," Davos stated firmly, "they'd only meet Horpe, Selmy, Santagar, and half a dozen Stormguard."

The Queen's expression darkened. "Do not question me, Lord Onion. You will see to my child's security if you know what is good for you."

"I obey the King and his Hand," Davos stated firmly. "If you have a grievance, take it to them."

The beginnings of a snarl formed on her face. Davos did not care for the queen, but for once he sympathized with her. She was a mother who feared for her children, and if there was any fear that was not shameful, it was that. But her fear was needless. If someone had meant to kill the queen and her daughter, they could have done so in the hours before Aegon's kidnapping had been discovered. "I will pray," She said eventually, her jaw flexing with effort as though she were screaming and not speaking. "I will pray to the Mother, that she will keep my children safe, and I will pray to the Father, that he will bring worthless fellows to light."

Davos bowed. "We all trust to the Seven, my Queen." He was not so pious as the Queen, but he could respect a person of faith. He turned on his heel and walked away before she could reply.

Davos walked. The stone beneath his feet gave way to cobblestones, then gravel, and finally dirt as he descended into the belly of the city. The stench of Flea Bottom settled around him like a comfortable cloak, more familiar and welcoming than all of the Red Keep's enticing scents. Davos had ascended high indeed, but those who called him a rat spoke true enough. He would always sleep better in the gutter than on a featherbed, though he preferred a hammock to either. Perhaps, though, his children would become accustomed to a better life.

Red Jon Roony was waiting for him in the Leaky Nagel. Davos considered himself fortunate that the man had been available to speak on such short notice. But then, he did pay well for the man's time. Roony was a long, lean man in a simple shirt and vest. Thick, ugly scars crossed his hands, neck, and face. There were a hundred fantastic rumors about the man's scars, but Davos did not pay them any mind. Red Jon had run his business on the docks since before most of the other bosses were children. You feared Roony because he was elbow-deep in the blood of men who had crossed him, not because his face was an ugly mess.

"Davos," the man stated, his voice all gravel.

"Roony." Davos sat down quickly. "There's a boy that's gone missing."

"I've heard." Roony's ugly face split into a cackling smile. "Goldcloaks arrested Molly Malone, thinking she was the girl you was looking for."

Davos sighed. Malone was a brawny, middle-aged spinster who sold shellfish and didn't remotely resemble the missing Sindee. "The Goldcloaks are doing their duty as best they know how."

Roony laughed. "Well, you know I haven't seen anything. The boys is watching half the coastline, and if we'd seen anything we would've told you."

"Any strange ships in town?"

"No more than usual." The scarred man grimaced as swallowed a gulp of wine. "I know most of the captains, but there's always a few fresh fish. Everyone's story smells good, though, and nobody tried to leave suddenly this morning."

"Anyone from Pentos?"

"You think they're that foolish?"

"Everyone's a fool at some point." Davos poured himself a cup of wine. "With patience and vigilance enough, you could catch the gods themselves."

A cracked smile. "Aye, I taught you that one, didn't I? Now I know you didn't come here just to ask me about ships from fucking Pentos, now did you?"

"No." Davos leaned in. "I've got a different idea altogether."

The next few days passed by in a storm. Davos took to sleeping in a small alcove just outside the Small Council's chamber. The goldcloaks turned the city inside out, and every ship and wagon for a hundred miles was searched, some more than once. The queen prayed and the ratmen hunted, but it was all for naught. Davos had expected this.

As the week died, the King returned, a rolling mountain of rage with a hundred Stormguard shortly behind him. The Small Council was waiting for him when he returned, his cloak still wet with rain.

"I take it from your expressions that nothing has been found?" Stannis' jawline clenched and unclenched furiously.

"If the boy escaped," Jason Mallister stated firmly, "it was not by sea."

"Nor is he in the city," Imry Florent added. "There's no place we have not looked."

Stannis' eyes tightened. "And now Davos will tell me that there is no way that they escaped by land."

"Hardly," Davos said. "If they had a measure of luck, they might very well have eluded me, or Mallister, or anyone one of us."

Stannis only scowled in reply.

"Perhaps," Imry spoke, anxious to break the weight of silence. "If we cannot find the boy here, we should look elsewhere. It is easy enough to guess where the dragonspawn will emerge when this is all over. Aron Santagar is a Dornishman, why should he not assist his liege's brother?"

"Have a care, Florent," Barristan's expression was frosty, "When I was a younger man I would have struck you down for so challenging the honor of the Kingsguard. Aaron is a sound man. He may have failed his duty, but-"

"But what? He has a duty to his family, to his former liege. Come, let us search Sunspear and Yronwood and see if a white-haired welp doesn't turn up."

"Enough." Stannis' voice cut through the din. "I will not have my Small Council squabbling like a pack of dogs. If this is how you all behave when I am away, it is no wonder that this slipped past you."

Barristan coughed, recovering his composure. "Your Grace, it seems likely to me that your absence is precisely what made our enemies move at this time. When you left, you took a hundred of your guard with you. When Lord Seaworth arrived with Viserys and Daenerys, many more left to escort them from the docks. It is likely that our enemy, whoever he is, was waiting for the Red Keep to be emptied of watchful eyes."

"If we lack guards," Pycelle's voice wavered a moment before continuing. "We might send to Lord Tywin, I am sure that-"

"What, that he would be willing to fill my keep with men loyal to him?" Stannis stated, cutting him off. "I am sure every Lord in the realm would be willing to serve in such a manner. What, are we hedge knights who need to beg Tywin Lannister for aid? We can redouble the Stormguard if we must, but that is a matter for later."

"Well, you all know where I stand on this," Imry stated, his chest pushed out. "Things appear rather simple to me. Aron Santagar is the son of a lord who serves Elia Martell's brother, Elia wants her little dragon to rule, and Willas Tyrell may be conspiring with them all as well for all we know. It was he who pulled you and your Stormguard away from her in the first place."

"And what, should I stay here, chained to the throne with all my guards?" Stannis growled. "Do not tell me that Willas Tyrell is to blame. If he had not called me away someone else would have."

"I have known Elia since she was a girl," Barristan added. There was no tension or threat in his body, but Davos could see a spark in his eyes that was distinctly unfriendly. "She is not given to theatrics or lying. I know what a mother in grief looks like, and she is that. You are a foul man to suggest otherwise, Imry Florent."

"Regardless," Half a dozen men had moved to speak, but Jon cut them all off, his voice like a fresh breeze in the stuffy chamber. "If it is the Dornish, they've been fools about this. We still hold Elia and Rhaenys, and if they move against us it will go poorly for them. Now, I have met Doran. I do not think he will not sacrifice his sister on an altar of ambition. Indeed, if he had schemes that twisted this way, all three of them would have been freed from the vault."

"Then all this shouting has been pointless," Stannis stated. "It is as I said when I arrived. None of you can tell me anything of interest."

Davos coughed. "I did have one thing to add." Eyes rose to look at him. He touched the pouch on his neck with his short hand. "I cannot produce him, but I think I know where Aegon is."

Outrage exploded throughout the room. Stannis held up a hand. "Explain yourself, Davos. Speak plainly. Your predecessor may have prided himself on being obsequious, but his manners suit you poorly."

"I cannot produce him," Davos continued with a sigh. "Nor have I any proof. But I can say how I would have done it, were I the adversary." No one said anything to that. They were not suited to this sort of business, these men. Everything was a battle to them, a war of gold and swords and men, and not one of information. He would need to explain this matter fully.

"It doesn't take any special talent to steal a thing of value, but avoiding capture and divesting yourself of the thing is a difficult matter. There are generally three major ways to go about it. The first is to run. It does not matter if they find it was you if you run fast enough and far enough they'll never catch you."

"The path of the craven," Barristan stated.

"Just so. Now it is possible that our enemy rode fast and hard and was lucky and escaped all of our many nets. But how far would he have to run to truly escape us? I may have a short hand, my lords, but my reach is long. Jason Mallister has a long reach as well, as do others of you. Either he intends to run so far that he is no threat to us, or he will soon appear within our reach and be finished. I do not think a cunning man would try to run."

"The second major strategy is to hide, and wait until your pursuers grow tired of searching for you. Once again, for a crime this audacious, I do not think that any man would try this. He should know that we cannot stop looking for them, that the boy is vital to the realm's security."

"Get to the point." Stannis' voice was cold, but not displeased.

"I think our enemy here is employing a bit of mummery," Davos stated finally. "During the rebellion, the Redwynes and the Dragons cut off all trade going into the Stormlands and the Vale. The price of a bottle of Arbor Gold in the Vale was a king's ransom, and dozens of men died trying to bring a bottle through the Stepstones and past the fleet at Storm's End. So naturally, I went to the Saltpans, filled my hull with cheap wine, forged the seal, and sold it in Gulltown as the real thing."

"Aegon is dead," Davos said, the words dropping flatly from his mouth. "It would be easy enough for a lone woman to escape our nets if she had no child, and the body of a boy, even one with royal blood, is easily disposed of."

"No..." Barristan pleaded, and Davos felt a pang of sympathy for the man. Tears welled in the old knight's eyes. "Why would anyone do such a monstrous thing?"

Davos breathed out through his nose. He felt much the same as Barristan did, but he had to keep his spirits calm. "Our enemy likely has some other dragonseed in hiding somewhere, and when the time is right he'll produce the false child and say 'look, here is your king,' and all will believe him, for everyone will know that we never found the boy. So long as he lived in our care, Aegon was death to the cause of any Targaryen loyalists. But with him gone, there is always the possibility that he might turn up where you least expect it."

Barristan cursed and Stannis leaned forward from his throne. "Who, Lord Seaworth? You clearly have someone in mind."

"It's the Spider." Davos blurted, his face reddening. "It's always been the damned Spider."


	16. Chapter 15: Waking to Thunder

Two weeks had passed since the hawking party had returned. Rather, it was two weeks since she and the King had returned. They and the Stormguard had ridden north like the fury of the storm god of old was behind them, although why they rode so hard Lyanna could not say. The child, Elia's son, was gone already, and no matter how fast they rode they could not change that. She had wanted to hold her boy, to sing him to sleep and tell him it would all be alright, and so she rode, but what good did that really do him? Stannis was little different in his own way. She saw him about the Red Keep in those first few days back, fussing and pacing and growling like a rabid dog on a leash. Neither of them could undo what had been done. Neither of them could do anything at all, but they had been in a great hurry to do it.

She had contemplated horrible, foolish things on that ride back. Stealing Jon and riding north. Prostrating herself at the King's feet. Barricading herself and Jon in their chambers. Stannis and she had shared, low, intense conversations whenever they paused on the road. He was obdurate, unmoving, and he had driven her blood to a boil. She had always possessed a wild, fitful temper. The wolf's blood, Ned liked to call it, and she thanked the Old Gods and the New that she had controlled herself for those few, desperate days.

Her blood had cooled instantly upon returning. Her Jon had been right where she left him, blissfully inconsequential in the eyes of the world. Elia, though, needed Lyanna's help, and Lyanna was happy to busy herself. The poor woman had never been strong, and who was strong enough to not be devastated at the loss of a child? For two weeks Elia had been sick, fitful, and prone to bursts of crying. Lyanna stayed by her side, distracted her, talked with her, and tried to lessen her sorrow. Aegon was not dead, Lyanna reminded Elia. They would doubtless find him soon.

But the Rat did not find him, and Elia's mood changed. Where she had been sorrowful, she grew fearful and withdrawn. Lyanna had searched for distraction, but her hawk had been left with the party in the Kingswood, and her other pastimes could only occupy her so much. That left her duties as the Queen's companion, and those were a challenge in themselves.

"I see that Lady Winter has returned?"

"Only in body. She's devoid of spirit, like a corpse out in the cold." That earned a polite laugh. Lyanna was far enough away from the gossipers that they thought she could not hear them, but the wide feasting hall of the Red Keep did funny things to sound. Normally she would have disregarded a few whisperers, but things were different from a few weeks ago. Or rather, they were not different at all, but now she saw daggers behind every smile. She sipped a glass of wine. Her face was flint and her eyes were ice and these southerners could do nothing to her.

"You can hardly blame her." One of the whisperers continued. "She got by on her looks, once, but no man will touch her now. Few even look at her, other than that one northern oaf."

"Lady Winter has hidden depths. Did you know she's fucking one of the Kingsguard?"

Lyanna set her wineglass down firmly. She had not heard this rumor before.

"I cannot believe that. Surely you lie. Who? Horpe?"

"No, the one they call the Blackfish, Brynden Tully. Selyse overheard them planning one of their trysts, and from what they said, it was not the first time."

"Oh, I know him. I cannot say I fault her, in truth."

Lyanna gripped her goblet. She needed to focus on something, anything other than the words of those gossips. The queen was present as ever, a few feet away and swilling wine with Kyra Frey and Imry Florent. "...My father will attend, I am sure." the Queen said diffidently as a servant refilled her cup. "Your family does much trade with the Westerlands, after all, and the guest list you have assembled is most impressive."

"My uncle Colin will be there as well!" Imry exploded. "He will make a fine showing in the lists. I wonder if you Riverlords have even a single knight that can match him? We have the blood of Garth Greenhand in our veins.."

Kyra giggled, clearly too much into her wine. "You are descended from Florys the Fox, and she was no great warrior."

Imry smiled. "You can wield a lance in more than one way, Lady Kyra."

Kyra sat up straight and nodded, her face red with wine. "I mean," she said, stumbling over her words. "A war-lance."

Imry laughed. "I rather think both types play their role in war. A well-placed stab can go a long way. Perhaps later I shall show you."

Cersei sighed heavily, giving voice to Lyanna's thoughts. "I don't much care what goes on behind closed doors between you two, but please, don't be a bore. This feast is already a chore only made tolerable by wine."

To hear her talk, one would think Cersei had spent the whole feast brooding in a corner like the King had. The Queen had laughed with nearly every guest at the feast, and yet she now spoke of boredom?

"Wine is a great thing," Kyra slurred getting better hold of herself. "It makes men slip and fall in ways they never would do otherwise." She giggled a bit at her own joke. Lyanna drew in a breath of air. She needed to get away from these monsters. Kyra had always been insufferable, but now she saw a meanness to her that she never had before. Imry too was a vile man, and the Queen was a little better. She had always known this, but she saw them in a different light now than she once had. Sex or battle or power or all three at the same time, that was the content of their speech, one idea flowing into the next with no gap. So many discordant notes in the conversation and Lyanna felt as small and as stupid as a beetle trying to divine the melody. She looked around for Wendel. Perhaps she could excuse herself to go speak with him.

The feast was in its latter stages, with half the men tottering about or asleep on the table. Wendel was one of these, collapsed in a great heap a few dozen seats away. A drop of irrational anger flushed through her cheeks. She needed another excuse. Brynden Tully stood a ways away from the King, but… no. Judging from those gossips she had been seen too often with him already. She rubbed her sore shoulder shoulder absently. Best to leave him be for now. They would meet again tomorrow in all likelihood. The King sat alone at the far end of the table, brooding, as he had been all night.

Lyanna stood.

"Where are you going, dear?" The queen's voice was sudden, sharp.

Lyanna schooled her features. "Every man who has sat down to talk with the King tonight has left his side almost immediately." She paused. "I thought I might see for myself what sort of awful things he's been saying all night."

It was neither kind, nor true, nor proper to say such a thing. Stannis had talked long with Lord Seaworth and Lord Arryn. He had shared wine with Willas Tyrell and listened to Pycelle and Valaryon's conversation intently. Even Wendel had exchanged some cordial words with the King. Even if it had been true, one should still not speak ill of the king. But the queen would believe it as an excuse. The surest way to Cersei's favor was to put down anyone who rivaled her. The surest way to make her believe you was to admit to a foul purpose.

"I could spare you the trouble," Cersei stated dryly. "I began the night next to him, and I assure you that he has changed little enough since then."

"I'm sure he has not changed," Lyanna stated coolly. Stannis had never changed in his life, she felt confident. "But I am a slave to curiosity, I fear."

Kyra's giggling had never really ended, but now she laughed outright. "Do tell us what he's been saying, Lyanna. Cersei never lets us know anything juicy." Imry laughed along with Kyra uneasily.

Lyanna left them as quickly as she could, crossing the room slowly and curtseying just before sitting down next to him.

"We have heard no word of Aegon, Lady Lyanna," Stannis said as his way of greeting. "It is good that Elia and Doran publicly disavowed the Spider's plans, but he is a slippery fellow with a great measure of cunning."

She nodded. She did not bring up Jon to him. Not anymore. That argument had been played out enough. Stannis had failed to ensure the boy's safety, she had argued, and with Aegon gone Jon posed an even smaller threat. But Stannis had said in return that if Rhaenys need still be bound to the Maidenvault, then so did Jon. A dozen stormy arguments had been enough to prove to Lyanna that she would not persuade him on this point. Rather, she could not persuade him without dragging her brother into the argument, and she had vowed she would not do that.

"What will you do when Aegon reappears?" Lyanna asked. "It will be hard to ask Dorne to raise its spears against its own blood."

"They will rise with the rest of Westeros," Stannis stated. "That is the purpose of taking hostages. Whatever else Elia and Rhaenys are, they are that." Lyanna sucked in a breath. The King was right, but she hated that he was right. Sannis frowned, conscious of having been too forceful. "Hostages also allow for the future leaders of the realm to know each other better," he stiffly allowed. "They lend stability to the realm in the future as well as the present.

"In any case, as I confided to you and Elia," Stannis continued, "Any boy we see claiming to be Aegon is as like to be a mummer as anything else."

"I asked if you had found Aegon not because I feared for the realm," Lyanna said. "I fear for Elia, your Grace. She holds out hope still… I had hoped that you had found a body so that she might grieve properly."

"Fear for Elia if you will, but fear for the realm as well," Stannis stated, and Lyanna felt her stomach churn. "It is not for Elia Martell's sake that we are searching."

Lyanna paused, unsure of how to continue. "Some say that if you have a son soon, you might betroth him to Daenerys, to weaken Aegon's claim."

"That would be a shield, but only one of paper, and in any case, it is useless to makes plans for a child that does not yet exist." Stannis' brow darkened further, his eyes turning to the Queen. "A thousand things and one I must do, but all men ask about is that I produce a son."

"A male heir with Baratheon and Lannister blood would ensure peace for the realm past your lifetime."

"Aye, I know. With a pretender escaped, the queen reminds me daily." Stannis' jaw flexed. "Unfortunately, for now, the gods and my own flesh seem united in denying her pleas for a son."

Lyanna paused, unsure of what to say. Was the King drunk? "Your Grace," She said haltingly. "You are very forthright."

"Why should I not be? I have nothing of which to be ashamed. I know my duty and I do it. Whether children come or not is no fault of mine."

"You blame the gods, then?"

He grimaced. "What purpose would that serve? Can I sit in judgment over them? Does begging to them yield any result? I can only do my duty. Aught else is not my concern."

"And what is my duty, would you say?" Lyanna asked, eager for a change in topic. "Everyone is always telling me that I should have left my Jon behind, so my duty cannot be that of a mother."

Stannis raised an eyebrow. "Do you expect me to believe that your brother has had no mission for you in your time here? No purpose?"

"I don't know." She said eventually. "I came here to watch over my son, and to keep you and Ned from arguing. I had no other thought in my head. I would happily serve my brother in something else, but he has nothing he wants of me."

"You are the personal companion of the Queen and one of the most eligible women of the realm, and you say that there is no service you can render him?"

Lyanna recoiled as though she had been struck. He was right. Wendel had been right, too. She had set her sights too low. Still, she had not been entirely idle. The King went too far. "Being companion of the queen is perhaps a less influential position than I had anticipated," she stated hotly.

Stannis' eyes hardened. "Aye." his eyes were fixed on the Queen across the room. "Take care. Some men call this place a den of vipers." He snorted. "Vipers do nothing until you step on them, but people here will flay you alive for sport and call it diplomacy. Throw yourself from the Tower of the Hand before you rest easy in this company. That will be a quicker and kinder fate."

Lyanna felt her cheeks fill with heat. Wendel had said much the same, more times than one. Perhaps it was the wine, perhaps it was the warmth, but for a moment Lyanna was filled with the impression that the hall they feasted in was the stomach of a great beast. Fossoways and Florents, Valaryons and Freys, Wendel and Stannis…. They were all joints and muscles and ligaments of the great howling beast that was Westeros. Westeros, the monster that had swallowed little Aegon whole. Innocence and ignorance were poor shields against madness and malice. She thought that she had known that, but she had not even begun to comprehend.

"I was not raised to live as a southerner, amidst all this noise and thunder." She said breathlessly. "But I think that I now see what you mean."

"I cannot tell you what course to follow," Stannis stated. "I am lost here myself. But watch where others have wrecked themselves before."

Lyanna was quiet a moment, her eyes drifting about the room. She took it all in. Wendel, Selyse, Willas, and a dozen others. What were they all thinking? Her eyes drifted to the queen, and suddenly her eyes locked with the queen's from across the hall. The queen held her gaze, and Lyanna looked down.

"I beg your leave, your Grace," she stated hurriedly. "But I fear that I am tired, and must retreat for the evening."

"Go," Stannis said, motioning for a servant to refill his cup with water.

A storm broke over the Red Keep that night, crashing into the roof of the Maidenvault, a great wall of wind howling between the towers, screaming like a man in grief. The winds followed her into her dreams, growing in intensity instead of fading away. The room about her rocked and quaked as the wind tore at the thin wooden walls.

Suddenly the whole world tilted and crashed, and the building around her came apart in splinters. Her fellows around her screamed and cried and beat their wings, some of them were dying, trapped in the ruins of the walls. She bit and clawed at the bonds on her feet, her hooked beak parting leather. Panic rose in her, but she quelled it as best she could. She could feel the wind on her now, ruffling her feathers and urging her to fly. Her eyes, her eyes! Why could she not see? She pushed her head against the perch she stood on. Neither her bonds nor her blindfold budged and she screamed with fury. Finally, the bonds on her legs tore away. A minute more and she could see, the blindfold falling to one side bloody and torn. She was free! She opened her wings and took off into the night, born aloft on the winds of the storm.

The next day broke quiet and clear, the castle's filth washed away with the water and wind. Lyanna rose and met Wendel for breakfast. Simple bread and eggs and cheese. Their conversation was little different than usual.

"There's a tourney at the Twins soon," Lyanna stated absently. "Kyra and others are going, but I would not feel comfortable with them alone for company."

Wendel's eyes twinkled and he smiled widely. "Well, this is a fine opportunity then! White Harbor will accompany you. The Freys are our near neighbors, after all, and it has been too long since I engaged in a proper tourney in any case."

"Ah, thank you," Lyanna replied. "I did not want to ask you, but I will be glad for your company."

"No," Wendel protested. "I am glad that you thought to mention it! This will be a fine thing indeed."

The conversation returned to more usual topics after that. They parted their ways, and Lyanna went about her day. The queen would be too drunk to stir before noon today, so Lyanna took her time with dear Jon. She was preparing to go meet Brynden when a runner came and accosted her.

"Lady Lyanna." The man huffed. "I regret to inform you that the cart, the one carrying your falcon, it-"

"It turned over in the storm," she murmured. The man's stammering was all the answer she needed. She felt surprisingly cool at this revelation. She had suspected the dreams for some time, and after all the Starks had all be skinchangers once. This would be good. This would be useful, and she needed every advantage she could get. She smiled kindly to the runner. "It is no matter. No doubt the falcon was simply lost in the storm, but I am sure she will find her way home."


	17. Chapter 16: Sow the Wind

"Come on then!" Brynden called out, banging his mailed fist against a shield. "Show us your paces, Ser!"

A small knight in dingy gray armor rode into the circle, a trio of Stormguard rushing to meet him. Brynden Tully had taken to training some of the young knights that loitered about the Red Keep, and this was one of his drills, meant to teach a knight how to properly fight against infantry in close quarters. Stannis had often watched them practicing from above, but today he had come down to see them in person. There were a dozen circles set up in the courtyard, full of men sparring with swords, or lancing at rings.

Here, the Stormguard had long staves with which they pushed and prodded at the knight, trying to knock him off his horse. The knight twisted in his saddle expertly, ducking one pike, allowing another to glance off of his dented breastplate, and taking the third pike with his shield. Defense flowed naturally into attack, and the knight's long blunted sabre snapped out, cutting down in an arc at the head of one of the Stormguard, even as the knight's horse turned and forced the other two men-at-arms to retreat. This nameless hedge knight had skill.

To their credit, the Stormguard did not falter. They evaded the hooves and sabre and moved to renew their attacks, but the diminutive knight had already seized the initiative, darting forward and striking at his opponents, attempting to isolate them and finish them off one by one. They danced back and forth, striking lightly so as to avoid harm. Every time the men-at-arms got close, the knight used his armor to weather the blows while his horse pushed them back. Every time the knight closed in on one of them, they circled him and defended their comrade. The third time they clashed together, the knight in the dingy plate caught one of the guard with a covered stroke. The other guards rallied, but without their comrade they were swiftly pushed back.

"Excellent swordplay, ser," Brynden called out. The combatants formed up in a line in front of Brynden and the Stannis, the gray knight dismounting. The guards were breathing heavily but smiling, whereas the knight kept his helm closed for now. "Sound technique, Ser Rivers," Brynden repeated, smiling proudly at his men. "But watch your back more carefully. If Eston had pressed the attack as you finished off Yohn, he could have had you."

The knight bowed slightly. "As you say." The knight stated quietly. He was a laughably tiny man, the top of his helm barely coming up to Stannis' chest. Stannis wondered how many skilled blades were like this: poor and unimpressive to look at, but as useful as any gilded knight of the Reach or Vale.

Brynden turned to Stannis, his expression cool and confident. Stannis had come upon their practice group unannounced, but Brynden showed none of his students' nervous energy, merely expectation. Stannis pulled a breath in through his teeth. Some praise from the King, no doubt, that was the reward Brynden anticipated for a job well done. Stannis wasn't sure whether he or his subjects prepared more false smiles for the other. "Well done," Stannis managed stiffly. "How many knights have you been training like this?"

"Three score currently, though twice that number have received some amount of training over the last year. Ser Donnel Storm manages them when my duty calls me elsewhere."

It had begun as a small thing, Ser Brynden Tully informally training a few squires as he had the time. But as word had spread, many young knights had flocked to the Blackfish for training. So long as it had not interfered with the Stormguard's duties in the Red Keep, Stannis had allowed it, but it was clear that this private project of Brynden's had grown too large to be ignored. Now Ser Donnel Storm, the Knight Commander of the Stormguard, was involved. Did they not have more important duties?

"Very good," Stannis stated. His men had done all required of them. If they did more, why should he criticize them? "The men who participate, you've been rewarding them?"

"Not in gold," Brynden stated cautiously. "But it's a good way to attract attention from Ser Donell, and the men know that. We don't need them for most of the training, but we can usually get a few score of volunteers when we need them." Stannis felt the man's eyes searching him.

He scowled. The man wanted the King's sponsorship to continue his private project. So did everyone in the Red Keep. What off-duty time did the Stormguard and Kingsguard even have these days, that they could engage in this? Between allaying Cersei's fears of assassins, compensating for the incompetencies of the goldcloaks, and the usual drilling, they should have duty enough.

"Speak to Lord Gerion Lannister." Stannis gruffly allowed. "He can provide you with gold for the men if you need it." Jon Arryn always maintained that ruling a realm was half might of arms and half bonds of fellowship. Well, if that was so, then a handful of knights of moderate means with some loyalty to a member of the Kingsguard would be money well spent. He would never be Robert, loved by all, but he might be Aegon the Unlikely, propped up by elite warriors despite his unpopularity.

"My thanks, Your Grace." Brynden paused. "I am to speak with Lord Gerion, not the Master of Coin?"

"Gerion is Master of Coin." Rather, Gerion would be Master of Coin before the week was out. Stannis' cousin Eldon Estermont was loyal but was also old, easily tired, and unsuited to the demands of the realm. Fully half the lords of the crownlands had been shorting the crown of its taxes and Eldon had not noted it, so a new name was required. Tywin and Cersei had both been hounding Stannis for a Lannister on the small council, so Stannis had named Gerion, the brother that Tywin hated, to the post. Stannis even entertained hopes that the man would be good at the job. "They say that the Lannisters shit gold, so why not put one in the Crowns' vaults?"

Brynden smiled in response, though Stannis noted a sign of strain on his face. No doubt the knight disapproved of his King's bluntness. Let him. The unfriendliness between the Lannisters and the crown was no secret. Kinder words would just be facepaint on a rotting corpse. "I will leave you to your work," Stannis stated, and turned on his heel.

A dozen courtiers and guards followed his every step. Stannis paced furiously, as though he might outrun them. Childish, simple, stupid. He could have sent them away in an instant if he had wanted. But since when had his wants mattered? Since before the siege, at least. Enough. There was work to do.

"News from the South, your Grace."

Davos. The man had fallen in behind Stannis as he marched forward. Stannis acknowledged him with a nod. "I would speak with Lord Seaworth," Stannis stated to his attendants. The guards fell a dozen paces behind, giving the King privacy as he spoke with his Master of Whispers.

"There's a man calling himself the Vulture King, my king. His men have been responsible for the raids coming out of the Dornish Marches."

Stannis grimaced. An old, foul name for a king of brigands who had ridden out of Dorne and painted the Stormlands with blood. "Is this Doran's idea of retaliating for his nephew?"

"Perhaps, though there is no sign of his involvement. These men of the Vulture are soldiers who were sent out to reave and they never came back. They've been disorganized and desperate for the last two years, living as brigands and highwaymen."

It was a familiar story. Half the pirates in the realm were once honest sailors fighting in just wars on behalf of their rightful rulers. The Stormlander lords had fought on both sides of every battle in the rebellion, losing lords and knights and smallfolk and treasure, and now the realm of his father did not have the strength to maintain order in their own realm. "What of the expedition into the Marches that we funded?"

"Feeding crows in the mountains for the most part or retreating. The men expected a few disorganized brigands, not a small army."

A sour taste filled Stannis' mouth. He was king of the whole realm, but it was his father's own bannermen who were suffering. "How many?"

"A thousand fighting men, Your Grace, and five times that many other followers, though my news is stale."

Stannis pressed his lips together in a fine line and kept walking. "Your rats are already in the Vulture's Roost, then?"

"An interest in worthless fellows is something I share with the Vulture King," Davos stated. "If my men had ravens I would have known about him gathering his forces a month ago. He is a cautious villain, it seems. A few dozen minor raids in the Stormlands and the Reach, leaving as soon as they are noticed."

"And all the miller's wives from Greenstone to Highgarden are barring their doors at night in fear." Stannis grimaced. "Another Lord of Crabs."

Davos did not reply. He did not have to. A minor pirate lord styling himself as the Lord of Crabs had been causing problems in the Bay of Crabs, harrying trade from Gulltown and Fair Isle and a hundred other lesser cities. Crabs and Vultures, come to feed on the carrion of Robert's war, or to make carrion if they could find none.

"Lord Mallister will bring the fleet from the Stepstones to hunt this Lord of Crabs. We'll gather a force from the Stormlands and Reach to answer this Vulture King. Have Maester Pycelle draft a letter to send to Nightsong, Harvest Hall, Blackhaven, Stonehelm..." he paused, "Wyl and Yronwood as well."

"And if the Iron Islands see the opportunity?" Davos' voice was low. Stannis' jaw tightened. Krakens were the greatest carrion eaters of them all. They had been building a fleet for over a year, and all Davos' spies spoke of sedition. He exhaled.

"They'll serve or we will destroy them. Every plank of wood sold to the Ironborn costs twice as much as those sold elsewhere, and for every two galleys they cobble together, the Lannisters build three and we build four." Stannis' pace quickened. "This plague of kings must end before it spreads, Lord Seaworth, lest fools like these grow bold. Let us see how eager Balon is for a crown when the heads of a dozen other brigand kings line my walls."

Stannis rounded the corner into his solar and stopped flat. He felt his shoulders tense. Coming up the hallway was the vilest creature in the whole of the Red Keep - his wife. Her long golden hair shimmered in sunlight as she walked towards him, swaying her wide hips with each step. Stannis' guts twisted and his jaw clenched. A thousand troubles plagued the realm, and she was the one who he feared the most. How many evils hung behind those bright green eyes of hers?

Davos politely excused himself as the Queen approached. Stannis scowled, but he could not scold the man. He would have done the same if his station had allowed it.

"I see that our bold Lord Onion has fled," Cersei murmured, drinking from a goblet of Arbor Gold as she approached. "Was he always this craven, or has he become so as your Whisperer?"

"Lord Seaworth only leaves because he has better things to do than fill his ears with your poison," Stannis half spat.

Cersei smiled without joy, "Lord Onion flees because he knows that unlike some, I am not blind to his failings."

"Cease chattering, woman." Stannis walked past her to the table, inspecting a series of missives from his trade officials. "Neither he nor I care anything for your petty politicking, no matter how much morality you cloak it in."

She came close to him, reaching around him and running her hand over his mailed chest. "Come, dear husband, must you be so sour?"

"I must. I do not possess your gift of being entirely unconcerned with duty."

Cersei moved to his side, staring up at him with a sly grin. A true smile, this time. Stannis felt his lip curl, preparing for the inevitable. "Duty?" She questioned, tilting her head to expose her long white neck. "Is your duty so unpleasant? I do not remember your remarking so, earlier."

He clenched his hand into a fist, resisting the impulse to take Cersei by the neck and dash her head against the stones. Or perhaps he wanted to take her by the neck and fuck her raw over the table. He could not say which. Either would have damned him so he held his peace, schooling his features to show no weakness.

"Cease your games." He managed, his voice harsh and rough. "Speak your piece and leave or I will have you dragged from my solar by force." He would do it, too, her Lord father be damned.

Cersei's hateful eyes flashed bright with anger. "I am Queen," she stated in a voice so low it was nearly a hiss. "You disgrace me to speak to me thus."

"I am King. You disgrace yourself."

Cersei's expression hardened. "Stupid, joyless man," she stated, her voice low and without energy. "Together we could be unstoppable, but instead you oppose me in everything."

He opposed chaos and havoc. "State your piece," He repeated, his eyes tightening.

Cersei looked aside, walking away from him to the table with a careless grace, calm and composed. This was Cersei's idea of a show of force, a compensation for being the first to look away. Petty. Meaningless. Typical. Cersei had called him joyless, but her only joy was cruelty, and aught else she did was artifice in service of cruelty.

She half-turned as she reached the table. "I have prayed to the Mother, to send me a child." She let the statement hang in the air.

She had confronted him like this half a hundred times in the months since Aegon had disappeared, demanding that he fulfill his duty to get her with child. He loathed her, loathed his own desire for her, and loathed most of all that she asked for what was her right. He stiffened, his heart pounding and his vicelike grip on his sword redoubling. Resignation filled him even as his heart quickened in eager anticipation. "False piety is even more galling than true piety," he stated with a snarl. "I know what you want."

"Did I say that I wanted something?" Cersei stated, turning back to him. "My prayers have been answered, and I now carry your child. A son, if the gods have heard me true." A tight smile. "There is no need for either of us to be concerned with our duties in the meantime."

Like some great wildling drum, the pounding in his chest continued, his body disappointed and his mind relieved. "Very well." He stated coldly. "Leave me."

With a smile and a twist of her waist, the Queen slipped around him out into the hallway.

"Close the doors." The guards filed into the room behind him and drew the great oaken door shut.

Stannis sat down on a low chair, his heart still racing as sat, emotionless and expressionless. How long he sat like that, he couldn't say, but eventually his heart slackened and he released a breath.

These were glad tidings, he knew. She would carry his child to term. Cersei was healthy and fertile, even if she lacked every other useful human quality. She would bear this child to term in all likelihood. He thought of his babe, his Cyrenna, with her black curls and blue eyes. She was perfect, however evil her mother, however great the pains taken to conceive had been. And now she would have a sibling, perhaps a brother…. He breathed out again.

He could not remember what he had come to his Solar for, and for the moment, he did not care.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

I'm BACK!

Sorry for the delay, folks, I got kidnapped and boxed up in a trailer in the desert for a few weeks. Also some other stuff happened, but I'm _back_. Also, I'm now posting Author's notes on here. Please let me know what you think. I will get the next chapter out next week. It will be Davos perspective, and after that there will only be one chapter remaining in this arc.

How'd everyone like my take on Stan the Man? What do you think of his relationship with everyone's favorite pre-teen murderess?


	18. Chapter 17: A Place to Be Alone

"The Prince is as sweet a babe as any mother could wish for," Kyra cooed over the young Prince's cradle, rocking him slightly as he wailed. "No, he's the sweetest, and the most handsome."

Prince Steffon Baratheon was tiny and redfaced, with bright green eyes and large ears, and had been colicky and restless for the whole month of his time in Westeros thus far. Still, Lyanna supposed that if every babe must be called handsome and sweet, then a prince must be doubly so. She could not begrudge Kyra paying compliments to the child she expected to one day sit the Iron Throne. The Queen sat not far to the side, her posture rigid and full of grace, belying the anguish in her eyes. A birth was difficult, but the worst part of childbearing came after. Lyanna well remembered the dark thoughts that had plagued her shortly after she bore Jon, and how she had struggled to hide them from her brother.

Lyanna sucked in a breath and steeled her own features. This was no time to be feeling pity for the Queen. In any case, she was not the one who suffered the most from Steffon's ill temper. A small army of nursemaids saw to the prince's care, and it was only at times like this that the queen was forced to be confronted with the child. Indeed, if Steffon had been a daughter, Lyanna expected that Cersei would have done as she had with Cyrenna and left the city for the troublesome part of Steffon's infancy.

Cersei drank heavily from her cup of wine and leaned over to speak conspiratorially to Lyanna. "I fear I have been too distracted with the child. I shall need to name a new lady-in-waiting, now that Selyse is no longer with us."

Lyanna regarded her coolly. "Selyse only left for Casterly Rock last fortnight. I assume you already have someone selected?"

Cersei's frown turned up at the corner ever so slightly. "There is a maid in Tarth but ten years old who is close to six feet in height."

Lyanna strangled the snarl with which she wished to reply. "Your maid of Tarth would be too young. At that age, a girl engenders more pity than scorn." Lyanna kept her tone careful and quiet. "If you're looking for giants, there's a cousin of one of my brother's bannermen, a woman of the right age who is just as tall, and wears mail and leathers everywhere as though she's a Dornishwoman."

Lyanna felt a drop of guilt in her stomach. Bringing Dacey to King's Landing would be no kindness to the maid. But the idea pleased the Queen for now, and that was all that mattered.

"If I wanted a Dornishwoman, I'd send for a Dornishwoman," Cersei's voiced disinterest, but her eyes glittered.

"Dacey Mormont's father is unknown," Lyanna added calmly, allowing the edge of her lip to curl with contempt. Cersei would probably think her contempt directed at Dacey. "Some say that Maege begot her with a Wildling."

Now Cersei chuckled warmly. "Wonderful, but I already have a lady-in-waiting who's part wildling. Or do I need to recite Bael the Bard to you?"

Lyanna suppressed a sigh. A year ago those words would have made her wonder if the Queen knew that she went with Rhaegar willingly and thrown her into a panic. But there was no hidden implication to Cersei's barb; she only meant it as a casual cruelty. In King Stannis' court, Cersei was more of a house cat than a lion. Her claws hurt, but they did not cut deep. Lyanna quietly sipped her wine and made no reply.

Cersei laughed quietly. "Do you know how happy it made me when I realized that you had caught on to my little game?"

"You have mentioned it."

Another smile. "Does it vex you, knowing why I chose you?" The Queen's chose her ladies to be as contemptible as it was possible to be. Whorish Kyra and prudish Selyse both served her purposes, as did Lady Winter, the frozen, damaged bearer of royal bastards. For reasons Lyanna could not discern, Cersei reveled in surrounding herself with the ridiculous, the foolish. Perhaps she meant to mock them or to make herself seem the better by comparison.

'Perhaps I am worthy of ridicule,' Lyanna thought. 'So say Olenna and many others. But I prefer my folly to cruelty.'

"I do not care," Lyanna said calmly. "I desired a position of influence in court, and I have it. So what if you or anyone scorn me? With an ounce of cleverness, scorn can be just as useful as glory." The queen hated all other women and most men. There could be no shame in being her enemy. If Lyanna were vexed at all, it was that such a person should be accorded power and respect.

No, pitying the queen would be a mistake. She deserved all her troubles.

"You sound just like my brother. I should have betrothed you to him instead of Selyse."

An irrepressible smile bubbled to her lips, imagining Cersei approaching quiet, implacable Ned with such a proposal. "Perhaps you should have," she answered lightly. "I'm closer to his height than Selyse is." Poor Selyse was as tall as the king; two hands taller than Dacey Mormont and skinny as a rail. Her wedding to Tyrion in a few years time would be the mockery of the realm.

Cersei laughed again. She was in excellent spirits today. Good. "Ah, Lady Winter, I cannot believe that some call you unromantic."

"My queen," Lyanna said with sudden urgency. "May I be excused?" She said abruptly. "I have just remembered that I had promised Elia something."

Cersei's posture relaxed. For her, this sudden request of Lyanna's would seem to be an admission of defeat. That would do. "You may go," she allowed. "But do return, I may have need of you later." That was the best that Lyanna could have hoped for. If the Queen's humors were good, she might not think of her wolf girl again until evening.

Quick steps took Lyanna through the near-empty halls of the Red Keep. Brynden had taken half the Stormguard and a hundred knights south to lead the fight against the Vulture King, and most of the lords who had come to see young Steffon Baratheon had already made their visit and left. The beast that was the Red Keep never truly slept, but today it rested for the first time in months. Perhaps this was good fortune. She climbed the narrow steps of the Tower of the Hand to its summit.

So focused was she on her goal that she nearly collided with the King's entourage. Lord Seaworth, King Stannis, Richard Horpe, and twenty men of the guard stood there. Whatever their conversation had been before, the King's men had stopped it upon her abrupt appearance. A surge of pink embarrassment rushed to her cheeks, and she hastily curtsied.

"My apologies, your Grace," she managed after a moment, forcing herself to lock eyes with Stannis. The King's eyes were hard and full of pain, and Lyanna felt a pang of sympathy for him then, knowing that his troubles were not soon to lessen. "I appear to have lost all sense of decorum," she added after the King did not immediately speak. "I had hoped to meet you all though." She swallowed. "Rather, I had hoped to speak with Lord Seaworth, and I know that he is never far from your Grace's side. I mean," She stumbled. "I mean that I wished to speak with Lord Seaworth alone."

"Indeed." The King replied, his voice halting. Lyanna had spoken often with the King over the last year, and there had been for a time a great degree of familiarity between them, but lately, that easy conversation had vanished, and Lyanna could only guess at the reason. "Indeed," Stannis repeated. "Lord Seaworth is indispensable." He paused. "However, for the moment, our business has been concluded."

A gesture from the King sent the Rat forward, and Stannis bowed. "Good day, Lady Lyanna."

Before she could reply, he had turned down the passage with a small host of men following him, leaving only the Rat looking at her with open curiosity.

"Lord Seaworth." She stated, schooling her features to remain as expressionless as ever, but

her earlier lack of composure betrayed her. She did not fear the Rat as much as she once had. There was nothing he could reveal about her that would do any material damage to her, and besides, if she did not fear Stannis, how could she fear his left hand? Still, though, there was something unnerving about the man. His calm, gentle eyes were the same eyes that oversaw the War in the Walls, as the inhabitants of the keep had come to call it. Lyanna could sometimes hear their screams in the Maidenvault at night.

Davos had done that. His hands were more bloody than half the knights in the keep, and for him, it was the black blood of murder and treachery. He was one of the great organs of the mighty beast that was King's Landing, hidden under the glittering skin of chivalry, but a dozen times as important as any other knight. She had to get his aid in this matter.

"Lady Lyanna." His tone was respectful but cautious.

She searched for words. A hundred rehearsals in her mind over the past week turned to dust in the wind as she struggled to find the words to speak. How could she say what she needed to say in a manner that would make the Rat believe her? In any case, there was too much chance of being overheard here in the keep. She needed somewhere private, somewhere...

A slow smile stole over her features. She knew just the place. "I had wondered," she stated carefully, "if you might be induced to come pray with me at the Great Sept."


	19. Chapter 18: A Hidden Sanctuary

Davos could not say what he might have expected of Lady Lyanna, but this had not been it.

There had a hundred and one rumors about her when she had first come to the Keep. Some whispered that she was the mistress of the Blackfish, Wendel Manderly, or some other courtier. Others said she secretly mourned the passing of Rhaegar and plotted the downfall of the King. Still others called her a sorceress.

Search as he might, Davos could find truth to any of these. Brynden was cordial with the lady, but he had no interest in taking a mistress. Wendel was often with her, but always in the company of attendants. If she mourned Rhaegar's passing, her emotions did not rise to her face, and if she plotted the downfall of the King none of the King's enemies knew aught of it. A sorceress she might be, but so might the Queen or Davos' own wife for all he knew.

Ser Wendel wrote letters of her to his father that described her in the most uncertain terms, and conjectured that she might have become an ally of Dorne. Princess Elia told her brother that Lyanna was Lord Stark's agent in the capital, spying on the king for her brother. Lord Stark and his sister's correspondence was frequent and lengthy, but contained nothing more than the idle chatter of a sister and brother.

The only truly suspicious thing Davos knew of her was that for a few hours each day she slipped away from her companions to be alone. There was little wonder to that; Davos wondered that Cersei's other companions did not do the same.

Her sharp wit and stony demeanor had seemed to mask no malice, her icey eyes possessing few hidden depths. All the better. Davos had grown sick of shadows. He could not allow himself to completely deny the existence of a guileless person, even here in the Keep.

In the last year, though, he had begun to wonder. Lyanna's disappearances had grown longer, her conversations sharper and more pointed. She had opened communication with the King, had started attending gatherings of her peers, and had even left her bastard alone in the Maidenvault for a month at a time. He had paid llittle heed to these signs — a thousand other matters were more important — but now she called him to speak in the Sept of Baelor, a place she had never set foot in before today. Her earnestness had been what had caught him off guard. She had spoken as though this matter might mean life or death to her. Unease filled Davos' mind.

No matter. For the moment he accompanied the woman, flanked by five men of the Stormguard. There were a dozen others that followed them unseen, trusted footpads with quick hands and sharp knives. Steel and gold would preserve him where his own dull wits were incapable, and whatever scheme was afoot, he would be ready.

They mounted and rode in companionable silence to the Hill of Visenya, passing the Alchemist's Guild and finally coming to the plaza of the Great Sept itself.

Unwashed ugliness was the rule of the city, but the Sept of Baelor was an exception. The wide plaza stretched out, acres of gardens and towers, the shape of the seven pointed star repeated in fractals a thousand times throughout. Davos wondered who had designed this place. The histories his son read to him always spoke of the kings and lords and knights, but was not the Smith of a peer with the Warrior and the Father?

Lyanna paused a moment before going further. "I am sorry for leading you like this. You've been very good to be patient with me, a person who is merely a stranger to you."

Davos touched the bones about his neck. "A Whisperer must listen to strangers, or else he is very poor at his job."

"I have an accusation." Lyanna stated. "A grievous breach of the King's Law. One that I can offer proof of."

"The proof is in the Sept?" The Faith held enough power that even a Lord Confessor like himself might tread carefully in the great sept of Baelor.

Lyanna nodded in reply, pursing her lips. "Do you trust me?" She asked suddenly.

He regarded her narrowly. "It is my duty to be mistrustful." Yet he did find himself trusting her, in spite of his better judgement. As spymaster he knew more of her comings and goings than her own brother or her closest friends. He knew how she behaved with the Queen, silently bearing and presenting a front of coldness. He knew how she behaved with her few friends, open and warm. An icy lake had hidden depths, people said of her, but though he had hardly ever spoken of her, he knew them better than any.

"I do not trust you," Davos said again after a moment. "But I will follow you a little farther."

They left their horses behind and walked through the plaza. Lyanna moved through the crowd agilely, directing their guards to avoid the hardest knots of milling smallfolk and lesser nobility. The Sept itself was crowded, but not nearly so much as it might be on a high day. The Faithful knelt before each of the statues in turn, speaking silent prayers in front of the candles. Davos made the sign of the star quickly, nodding to the Father and the Smith and the Stranger in turn.

"Tell me, Lord Seaworth, what do you see?"

"The Faithful worshipping their gods, my lady."

"Perhaps five in seven of them are. What about the others?"

"Well..." Davos frowned, and took in the room more carefully, looking intentionally at each of the hundreds of people moving about the great chamber. "There are the septons who care for this place, as well as attendants for the wealthy, noble, or disabled. A group of the Sisters are leaving just now..." He paused. "There are the Guards of the Sept as well. Perhaps..."

"The Guards, yes." Lyanna interrupted him. "Those are the ones I am watching."

There were perhaps six guards in the sept at the moment, Septons with plain steel underneath white robes and tall staves at their sides. The Faith was not permitted to raise an army, but most of the greater septs kept a few men such as this. Their numbers were limited and they were only permitted to carry staves for fear that they might shed blood in the Sept itself, but they protected the Sept from vandals and from thieves, and also guarded the privacy of the Most Devout.

There was nothing unusual about their appearance here, however. Lyanna must have meant to direct him to what they were guarding. There were seven chambers off of the sanctuary that were used by the Most Devout for their own prayers, although powerful devotees of the Faith were sometimes allowed to use them as well. They were called the High Shrines, and only by consecrating a great degree of wealth could one gain access to them. He watched as a great heavy walrus of a merchant moved to enter the chamber next to the statue of the Maiden. To Davos' surprise, the man was barred entrance. "They aren't letting anyone into the High Shrine of the Maiden." Davos paused. "The Most Devout do not make use of them this late in the day, and they should be open to the patrons of the sept by now."

Lyanna smiled darkly. "The High Shrine of the Smith is similarly reserved. Come." She touched him on the shoulder and broke away from their escort, weaving through the crowd toward the High Shrine of the Maiden. Davos guessed her intent and waved aside his men. They were less than twenty feet from the entrance to the shrine, and just as Davos expected the guard to turn and stop them, a great hawk swept in over the heads of the crowd. Uproar broke out amongst the guards stepped forward, tense and at the ready.

His guide did not seem to note the presence of the hawk, but quickly slipped in behind the guard and through the narrow door behind. Davos followed her quickly.

Then, all at once they were alone in the chamber. It was a comfortable chamber with a great and gaudy shrine. Davos did not know that the great pile of silk cushions did anything to assist with prayers; he could more easily imagine himself falling asleep in them than praying. The gold ornamentation of the shrine itself was impressive, although Davos was more interested in the reliquary just under the shrine.

"I was hoping that you knew how to move." Lyanna allowed. "The guards are easily distracted, but I am grateful that you did not balk at the key moment."

"However high I ascend, my lady, I am still a Rat of Flea Bottom. I wonder more at your own talents. Was it your dancing instructor who taught you to move as quick as a fox?"

"I learned more from avoiding him," the lady stated, her expression cold as she moved to a tapestry hanging on the wall, a great ancient thing showing the tale of Hugor Hill. She lifted the tapestry by one corner, revealing a narrow, dark passage through the stone, and slipped inside without a word.

For a moment Davos did not follow. He stared at the image of the Father on the tapestry, standing in judgement. He could still hear the chaos sown by that hawk in the great sept behind him. Sorcery, he thought with a shudder, and cursed himself for thinking it. He felt for the dagger in his pocket, muttered a quick prayer to the Father, and followed the lady up the tunnel.

She had waited for him in the dark. "Where did this passage come from?" He asked quietly.

"I know not." Her voice was quick, excited now. "But this tunnel and the others were not always so abandoned."

"How did you discover them?"

"Chance," she stated airily, and Davos' grip on his dagger tightened. Soon there was light ahead, and they entered a tall, airy chamber, lit only by a single window high on the wall. The room was not large, perhaps thirty paces on a side, and was entirely empty except for a changing screen, a shrine, and a luxurious bed with a platter of wine and bread next to it, cut as though someone had eaten of it recently. The bowls of incense intended for the shrine sat around the bed, still stinking of whatever had been burned in them last.

Davos' guts clenched, and his eyes turned back to Lady Lyanna. The small woman seemed taller now, as she walked across the dim room. "Welcome to the private shrine of the High Septon."

"This is no shrine." Davos' own voice surprised him its hoarseness. "This is a boudoir."

"Aye," Lyanna allowed. "The Queen's own."


	20. Chapter 19: Questions and Answers

"You are sure it is hers?" Lord Seaworth's hoarse voice barely rose to a whisper.

"I am." Lyanna nearly winced to hear herself say it. She knew what the Queen had been doing, had seen it herself while wearing the skin of her falcon, but she could not very well claim that as evidence against someone so lofty as the Queen.

Lyanna kept her distress from her features, touching Brighteyes' own mind and drawing from it's sharpness. "When the queen comes to pray, she reserves the shrine of the Maiden for her own use several hours in advance. After a time of prayer, she will send out all of her companions, claiming that she needs the time alone for meditation. Her guards stand vigil for an hour or more afterward, until she finally calls for them again." Lyanna paused. "These days her companions and guards don't even bother to enter the shrine with her."

Davos grimaced with anger. "Do you mean to say that the hours the Queen spends in here every day are always..."

"No. Not nearly so often. When the King is away from the Keep, or when his Stormguard are spread out across the Seven Kingdoms as they are now, or if she and the King have been fighting, she'll be accompanied by a man, who will reserve the use of another of these shrines for a few hours at the same time. For months she might be a faithful queen, and then she will have a man five times in a week."

"You can name them?" The Rat leaned towards her, and Lyanna was suddenly conscious of their difference in height.

"Imry Florent, Meryn Trant. There might be others." She stated. Of those two she had only seen Imry Florent, but Meryn Trant had accompanied Cersei to the Sept, even outside of his normal guard duty.

"And Steffon, Cyrenna?"

"I don't know. Cyrenna has the right look, but Steffon..."

He looked away for a moment, up towards the window high on the wall.

"How could this happen?"

Lyanna swallowed. "She is careful, she..."

Davos turned on her then, his normally kindly face full of thunder. " _I_ have been careful." The words were stated quietly, dangerously. "I have watched everyone and everything. Why has no one come forward before? The High Septon, Imry Florent's squire, the Queen's other ladies, the brothers who clean this place, the sisters who bake the bread that is brought here… are they all willing to die to see the queen continue in her adultery? Why must it be Lyanna Stark who brings me this news?"

Lyanna felt the blood rise to her cheeks. If others had failed to bring this forward, how could she be expected to answer for them? She stayed silent, enduring the Rat's glare.

After a moment, the Rat sighed in defeat. "How is it that you came by this knowledge?"

"I am the Queen's close companion," she began. "I see little, but I hear much. Imry Florent flirts with Kyra, but his eyes are on the Queen. She rebuffs him, but not coldly."

"If wandering eyes made for adultery, we should all be harlots."

That had only been the beginning of her concern. She wondered how many signs there had been before that, that she had been too naive, too unconcerned to notice. "The same night that I first saw this, the King confided in me that… the Queen had been very demanding that the King fulfill his obligations as a husband. This was right and proper of her, no doubt, but it followed on the heels of the King's most recent absence from his wife - on the hawking trip."

And the queen had become pregnant shortly thereafter. Lyanna did not have to say it; the Rat would know.

"I watched Imry and Cersei, together, apart, when they were in public and when they were apart. In his cups at the Twins, Imry boasted that he had a mistress finer than any other, but would not share her name and did not wear her favor. A trifling thing, perhaps, but that same night toward the end, when he was truly drunk and surrounded by only his closest of friends, I overheard him speaking to the others"

'There is no one in the Seven Kingdoms who is a match for my wits,' he said, 'I can make a fool of any man.'

'What of the Rat, the King, and Lord Tywin?' one of his friends said, 'Whatever else may be said of the King, there are shrewd men aplenty in his court.'

'The Rat is good at accounting for his dinner, perhaps,' Imry replied, 'but the movement of great things escape his notice, and for all of the King's bluster he lacks both discernment and potency.'"

"You overheard this?" The Rat's face was painted with open disbelief.

"I did, though he knew not that I was near. All else around him were his close friends." Florent, Frey, and Lannister, all friendships formed through Cersei's inner circle. Had Cersei meant for the Starks to be in the fold as well? Balon Greyjoy's huge, ugly brother been there too, and his presence worried Lyanna more than all the rest combined. "Ser Florent was very deep into his cups, Lord Seaworth."

"Perhaps he does have an affair, then. But it could as easily be with any or all of half a dozen women of the court, even if your tales are true. What of Meryn Trant, what of the Queen?"

She pinked. "I have already told you. One or the other of them accompanies her to the Sept, and afterwards she sees to it that she is left alone in her room, they see to it that they are left alone in their own. Her doing this is common knowledge, but no one thought anything of it. What of it, if the queen uses her false piety as a pretext for a few hours alone? But after hearing Imry and seeing everything else, I reserved the High Shrine for myself, and I found this secret shrine."

She paused. She had skipped the step where she had spied them through her falcon, but that would have to be omitted. The Rat, for his part, was still as stone. She flushed. "What, did you think I had seen them making violent love to each other on this very bed? I have limits, Lord Seaworth."

He sighed, pulling away from her. "What you have is old wive's tales and circumstance. You can prove nothing?"

She bit back her anger, burying it deep beneath her snowy expression. "Do I speak to the King, or to his Whisperer? Wive's tales are your domain, ser."

Lord Seaworth nodded, the ghost of a smile appearing on his lips. "Aye, and though I wish you had proof, I wish more that you had brought this tale to me sooner. But whether I believe you or not, I must press you, to be sure of what you truly know and what you just suppose. I cannot dismiss this rumor, Lady Lyanna, and if the Queen is continuing in cuckoldry, I will soon be able to prove it to the King. By all the Old Gods and New we will see this through."

A falcon cried outside the window of the keep, and Lyanna felt the hair on the back of her neck raise. She touched Brightwing's mind and with a quick glance confirmed what she feared. Near the base of the hill, the Queen's entourage was gathered, and Brighteyes could see amongst their number the white cloak of Meryn Trant. She cursed silently to herself. She had hoped that the Queen had reserved the room for her private use only this day, but it seemed that she had a companion.. "We must leave here," she urged Davos suddenly. "The Queen will be here soon enough, and more than you and I will be required to bring her to justice."


	21. Chapter 20: The Storm of the Sept

"...And we came straight here, milord. I do not believe that any of the Faithful marked us leaving, but it is possible." Stannis' spymaster had delivered news of the Queen's cuckoldry with all the pomp and circumstance of a man reading off the list of a lineage.

The words echoed in the near-empty throne room. All had been made to leave except for Selmy, Seaworth, Jon, and Stannis himself, and for a moment none of them spoke.

"Am I to understand," the King finally growled, the words short and clipped, "that as we speak, my Queen is whoring herself out to a member of my own Kingsguard?"

Davos coughed. "I believe so, your Grace. I have known for some time that the Queen favors Ser Florent and Ser Trant with these times of prayer, but infrequently, and neither go to pray if they are not with her. I thought nothing of it before now, but having seen the room myself..." Davos winced. "Too many of Lady Lyanna's observations ring true. Either way, I have seen to it that I will be sure before too long."

Doubtless, Davos had some pot boy of Flea Bottom on a nearby tower with spyglass, or something equally ridiculous. Regardless, he could be depended on to find the truth of the matter. Lowborn, but trustworthy, with that latter fact being all the rarer as days went by. Trust. He had not trusted Cersei, but this, this was beyond what he could have ever expected. His bowels twisted, full of bile and hate.

"We should act cautiously, Your Grace." Jon Arryn stepped between him and Davos. The Old Falcon's face was proud but strained. He was as shocked by this as anyone. Good. A man who reacted to this news in stride could not be trusted. "Adulterer or no, Cersei is still the daughter of one of your most powerful vassals. If we accuse her without ample evidence, it will mean war. At this junction, that would be disastrous. Half your Stormguard and the might of the Stormlands are fighting in the marches, the fleet is up by the Bite, hunting pirates, and relations with half your vassals are still poor. This matter requires delicacy."

Curse the Hand for being a troublesome fool. Curse him for forestalling justice. Curse him most of all for being right. Stannis rose from the throne, thunder rolling between his ears. "Delicacy, perhaps, but decisiveness as well. Tywin does not mewl at weakness, and with every moment we risk the Queen learning of what we know."

"True," Jon replied. "But hot blood breeds rash decisions. If this testimony is true, the Queen's treachery follows a pattern, visiting this same place; with care, we can entrap her in such a manner that no man, not even Tywin, can contest the claims of her infidelity."

Stannis glowered at the Old Falcon. Caution and restraint. Was this what he had counsel he had offered Robert, offered his own heir? It did not matter. The Hand's advice could be blessed wisdom from the Gods themselves and still Stannis could not make himself heed it. To hide the truth from the Queen? To lie with her with nothing but hatred in his heart? He was ill-suited to such mummery.

"And should the truth slip?" Stannis gnashed his teeth. "No, I will not stomach that risk. She is in the act now, and if we move we can catch her. You, I, and a hundred Stormguard should be witness enough."

"And if your Whisperer is wrong?"

Stannis' lip curled as he rose from the throne. "Then we shall make obeisance at the shrine of the Father and return. If I am to play at mummery, that is at least an act I'm familiar with." Long strides bore him past Jon and down from the dais.

Jon nodded in reply and began to walk with him. "You, I, and Selmy should all go, so as to make the accusation unquestionable." Jon paused and turned to Barristan Selmy nearby. "Ser Barristan, what do you make of these accusations?"

Selmy fell in behind them. "I would like to say that no member of the Kingsguard could do such a thing, your Grace, but Meryn Trant is not a person of high moral character. I am surprised to hear that he has done this, but more because I would have thought him too cunning than because of any belief in his character." Barristan hesitated. "If you will recall, I spoke against his nomination to the Kingsguard after Mandon Moore's position came open."

He had, and all the lords had thought him loyal to the dragons. No, Meryn was one of the few appointments he had allowed Cersei to make, and he was sly and cruel. Stannis could easily believe him capable of such a thing. Enough. "Seaworth, see to it that my Masters of Law and Coin are brought to the SmallCcouncil room to await me, and if they try to leave, insist on the importance of the meeting. The Lord Hand and I, along with the Stormguard, Kingsguard, and Lady Lyanna will return to the Sept and witness whatever the truth of the matter is. "

"Lady Lyanna, ser?"

"She is the accuser, here, is she not? We need witnesses and we need a guide, and she is a Stark, whatever else she is." Venom entered his voice, but he would not apologize for it. For nigh on a year she had suspected this, and only now she spoke? Davos' account hinted at dark things; witchcraft and visions. Stannis wondered if he had ever truly known her at all. What other secrets might she know, might she be hiding? Had she remained silent for so long because of doubt, did she nurse a grudge over Jon Snow's imprisonment, or was this all some part of a larger scheme? Enough. Her slowness could be considered later. For the moment there was greater treachery with which to be concerned.

His blood was sulfur, his mouth was ash, and he could not say why. His marriage had never been one of love. They shared hatred for each other, and at other times a bed, no more. No, her cuckoldry did not surprise him. Her boldness surprised him more, but surprise was not sufficient to explain what he felt. Such thoughts could wait.

The children would have to be disinherited. The girl was his, but no child of a whorish queen could sit the Iron Throne. Of Steffon, the boy who he had named after his own father, he was less sure. Green eyes and black hair, but the boy's feature were not his. It did not matter, though. Whatever love he had spent on them was wasted, both of them would be bastards by morning, victims of their mother's wantonness. How many babes would grow up in the Maidenvault? Stannis swallowed the hatred toward her that welled up in him and rode on. They could worry about succession when Cersei occupied a Black Cell.

Stannis strode out from the chamber, pulling Lyanna into his wake. Jon followed just behind, speaking with a low tone. "Your Grace, t'would be expedient to send a smaller party than what you initially stated. A hundred Stormguard entering the Sept of Baelor will not do so quickly or quietly, and we do not want to give them warning. Moreover, a party of highborn knights will serve as both guards and as witnesses."

"Highborn knights such as cluster in my keep are full of ambition," Stannis growled. "How many can we truly trust?"

"A few are sound," Jon stated. "Whatever choice is made, we must make it quickly."

"Very well. Gather them." Haste, they required haste, and a hundred Stormguard could not be gathered quickly or quietly. There were dozens of knights loitering about the keep, and as they went down to the stables, Jon pulled them aside as they walked through the keep; men practcing at arms, already prepared for action. Fossoway, Bracken, Piper, Caron, Royce, second sons of second sons or worse, but they would serve.

Within half an hour they were riding up Visenya's hill, two dozen knights along with Barristan Selmy, Preston Greenfield, Richard Horpe, Jon Arryn, Lady Lyanna, and himself. It was no great host, but they were not riding to war just yet. The only force in the city that could match them was the goldcloaks, and their captain was Stannis' own man. Ser Florent had some pull amongst their number, but he could not have gathered enough of them quickly enough to make a difference even if he had known of this, and Seaworth should have found him by now in any case.

Ratmen bearing Davos' seal accosted them as they rode, bearing news from their spying. The Queen was in the sept, the Queen had dismissed her attendants, the two of them had actually entered the Shrine of the High Septon. His fury rose in tempo with each one of them. What purpose did the queen have in doing this? What end did this serve, other than spite or lust? And if lust, then why should she set upon a fool like Imry Florent? Why… but no, it did not matter why. Her fair head would roll for this, damn her. His teeth ground against each other at the thought. Stannis had put his cloak over her, vowed to protect her, and he had meant it - and now he must kill her. That terrible truth danced before him, but he pushed it aside. Curse them all, could they not get to the Sept more quickly? He needed less time to think.

Finally, they came to the plaza. The crowd parted between them, but slowly, for Stannis would have no formal announcement of his presence. He and Jon both had donned simple armor and ridden forth with no heraldry, his crown beneath a great hood. The White Cloaks had donned simple tabards over top of their usual wear. Stannis would not have any well-meaning merchant's words wafting up to be heard by his treacherous queen.

They left the horses outside the sept and with them a few knights there to guard the exit. Other knights he sent around to guard the various exits, lest the Queen attempt to flee. Selmy and others he sent to the High Shrine of the Father, where Meryn Trant was supposedly worshipping. The main force marched through the sept toward the shrine of the Maiden, their steel ringing out in the sanctuary. Carrying weapons was not forbidden here, but such numbers of knights would be a rarity, and Stannis could hear the murmuring of the crowd rising as everyone stared at them. Well, they would have enough to murmur about soon enough.

"Ser," An aged septon called out as they drew near to the Shrine, "SER! Ser, the high shrine is reserved for use of the-"

Stannis stepped forward, lifting the hood from his shoulders so that the man could see his crown. "It is now reserved for use of the king, devout one. I have urgent need to make prayer to the Maiden. Stand aside." The septon nodded meekly and moved away.

"The KING?" A nearby septon screeched. "The KING is HERE?" Stannis' eyes whipped to the man. A short, shrewish man, whose eyes held more fear than surprise. A lookout of Cersei's, trying to warn her. The Septon got one more yell free before a mailed fist knocked him to the floor. One of Arryn's knights. The knight had no doubt come to the same conclusion as Stannis had, but Stannis cursed him for the action he took.

No time. Things had become yet more urgent. They rushed into the High Shrine, and as promised it was empty of the Queen, but not of the passage Lyanna had described. Stannis' long legs ate up the ground at a vicious pace, the clattering of everyone's mail filling the passageway with noise.

Meryn Trant's sword nearly took his head off.

Stannis never saw the blade coming, pure reflex saving him before he even registered he was being attacked. He ducked to the side and the blow glanced off of the mail on his shoulder. His shoulder throbbed as he drew his mace, sidestepped another blow, and thrust his mace directly into the man's belly.

Meryn Trant coughed and heaved, falling to the ground in a heap. He was not armored, he was barely even dressed, and Stannis's gall rose at the idea that he had nearly died to such an ill-prepared man. Reckless fool. But this was a distraction. Meryn Trant was unimportant. "Find the QUEEN." Stannis hissed. She could not have gone far. There were three more passages leading away from this place. According to Lyanna, one of them led further into the great sept and the other two led back into two of the other high shrines.

"Horpe, take four men and go into the sept to find my whoring wife. Greenfield, secure your White Brother and bring him with us. Everyone else, with me."

"Hold, hold!" A voice called, and Barristan Selmy came up the far passage, along with four of his knights. Between them, defeated, angry, and half-dressed…

His Lady Wife.

Her fine red dress had clearly been hastily thrown over her head moments before. She stepped over her own smallclothes as she drew near, her face twisted with rage. Bruises from the short scuffle in the passageway were already blossoming on her arms, and her hair fell in a tangled mess about her shoulders. Still, she walked with haughty pride.

She would die for this. Stannis knew that, cold, inescapable truth. She had to, or else justice would not be done. A hundred other cruelties she had done, but this one could not be forgiven. She had not slighted him, she had slighted the whole realm, undercut its stability with her wanton disrespect for duty. There would be blood over this. Dozens of men at least would die for her sins. More likely, thousands would die, and women Cersei's better would lose sons and husbands. And yet, and yet... "Cersei Lannister..." His voice trailed off, not knowing what to say for a moment. "Why?" he said finally, blurting the word in wonder. He grimaced. "What reason could you have for this?"

Cersei showed her teeth in a snarl. "If I have kept paramours, what of it? Many men do. I see my handmaiden Lyanna with you? Has she been yours this whole time? Is that why you move now against me, because you wish to supplant me and throw my children out?"

"Do not now presume to play at innocence with me, woman. I have ever been faithful to you, and if Lyanna was the first to denounce you, she will not be the last."

The Queen's eyes flashed and she pulled fiercely at the knights restraining her. "I could have made you powerful, Stannis. I could have shown you things… but you had to oppose me; you had to be my enemy."

"And I would have been king in name only, leaving my realm the domain of a madwoman."

"And you, Lyanna, I taunted my women, but I gave them the best too, I could have made you great, but I see now that-"

Enough talk. "Knights!" Stannis shouted, overriding Cersei's voice with his own. "Take this one to the Keep. We will hold her until the time comes for a trial. Kingsguard, shed your drab tabards. Let men know what the queen has done here." With the testimony of Jon Arryn, Lyanna Stark, Selmy, and himself, along with dozen knights of the realm, even Tywin would be unable to question them.

In a moment they were out in the sanctuary again, and the murmuring crowd had turned into a shouting one, merchants and knights and maidens all yelling and pointing, any semblance of sacred worship having been completely lost. Darkly, Stannis wondered how many of the Septons were in his wife's pay; how many of them might have been inciting the crowd against them since they first entered here. Knights dragged the queen between them, even as she screamed and pulled at them.

"Form up around the king! Protect him at all costs!" Jon called, and the knights collapsed into a block around Stannis and pushed through the crowd. The crowd was not as thick as it could be, nor was it violent, but all of that could change in a minute. Stannis cursed that overeager knight and his mailed fist.

They pushed through to the plaza, pushing with their elbows and shouting. Horses were mounted, Cersei's hands were bound with a rope tied to the saddle of Horpe, and the same was done to Trant. By the time they were ready to ride, the plaza before them had filled with merchants and alchemists and smiths and nobles, all emptying from the various gardens and shrines to gather before them. Stannis ground his own jaw. His force could push through, perhaps, but he would not like to chance it. Very well, he would have to remind the rabble who he was.

"Come, Greenfield. Come with me and unfurl the banner." Stannis ordered, and he turned in his saddle, looking over the mass of people grimly. The banner was released with a great rolling flap, and a shiver of excitement carried itself through the crowd, silencing them for a moment.

Stannis turned his horse and made it walk in front of the masses. "This woman, my queen, Cersei Lannister, stands accused of committing adultery with a member of my own Kingsguard, on the very grounds of this sept, desecrating this holy place. I myself witnessed her doing this." To Stannis' own ears his voice was as harsh and toneless as the cawing of a crow, but these folk would listen nonetheless. He was their King. "She will be taken now for judgment in the eyes of the Seven, whose temple she has defiled, and she will face justice."

"The King means to take me away and have me killed, so that his Northern Mistress might become Queen! Save me, people of the Faith! Save me!" The queen had somehow broken free from her captors' hands for the moment, and though she was silenced as soon as she began, a thousand voices rose up to replace hers.

"What does the King know of the Seven?"

"The Queen is a devout woman!"

"Lies!"

"The King has defiled the Sept with this!"

Stannis grit his teeth. "Ride for the Keep," He hissed, and Arys Oakheart led them onward. They moved forward for a moment, the massive size of the warhorses intimidating anyone who got too close. The banner would give them some protection for the nonce, but he did not trust his life to it.

Stannis never saw who threw the first pot. It missed, horribly, shattering the skull of some apprentice, but it was only the first. Soon projectiles were flying everywhere, and bodies pressed hapless souls directly under the feat of the warhorses.

"RIDE FOR THE KEEP," Stannis cried, urging his horse into a trot. Every step of his horse, Saltspray, came up bloody from the cobbles. Some peasant grabbed hold of his saddle and he was forced to draw his mace and beat the man senseless. They would make it through. They had to make it through. Curse Cersei for bringing this upon them. She would be raped and dead in a gutter before the night was through if she had her way.

They had nearly made it through when Stannis saw them. Goldcloaks. Only a handful of them, but perhaps enough to quell the mob. That hope turned to ash in his mouth when he saw who was leading them. Imry Florent sat in their way, astride his dun-colored destrier with a cocky smile plastered on his face. Fool. He would not survive the month regardless of what side he took. Stannis' mouth filled with bile as the goldcloaks readied their spears against them.

"FOR THE KEEP!" Stannis urged, and their horses increased their pace. Then all at once they were amongst the goldcloaks. Barristan's horse went down and the knight came up fighting, his sword flashing to left and right, cutting the men to pieces. Stannis smashed the skull of another. Something inside him stirred, a strange thrill completely new to him. He shouted aloud and turned Saltspray, letting the beast trample a fallen Goldcloak and bite another. His heart pounded with exhultation. Was this how Robert felt? Robert was dead, and Stannis raised his mace to kill another man. They could not be stopped her, lest the mob consume them all.

His mace never fell. Saltspray died underneath him with a scream and the world tilted as Stannis crashed to the ground in a pile of steel. His breath escaped him in a rush and he struggled to move, but already a goldcloak was raising his spear to kill him. He gasped and struggled. Robert dies on the Trident to a dragon, I die in front of a sept to a mob.

The goldcloak's neck exploded in gore as a thrown spear caught him in the neck. A horse's hoof clattered on the cobbles on his right. Another clattered to his left.. "The King! The King!" They called, and Stannis grit his teeth and got his feet underneath him, straining with effort. He stepped into the stirrup of the rider that had saved him. Hands found him pushing him up. "GRAAAAH!" He yelled, and then he was in the saddle, rocking like a sack full of stones as he positioned himself behind the rider.

The rider, Lyanna Stark. "Hold on, your Grace!" She shouted, and pushed her horse forward.

He cursed, and held on to the side of the saddle with all his might, finding the other stirrup even as they clattered forward.. Lyanna had pushed herself so far to the front that there was nearly enough room for him, gripping the horse with her legs even as her skirts flowed out behind her. They clattered forward, every bone in Stannis' body aching with every step. Lyanna turned her horse to trample a man, deftly stealing a spear from him as they rode. She stabbed another man in passing, and dodged a throne. They pressed forward, they pressed forward, until finally the goldcloaks broke and scattered to the winds. If Imry Florent was dead, Stannis had not seen him fall.

They slowed to a trot as they reached the bottom of the hill, the shouts of the mob in the distance behind them. Stannis craned his neck and cursed. "Where is the queen?" She was not with them. "Where is the QUEEN?" he shouted, but he already knew. The Queen was gone.

"My fault, sir," Richard Horpe stated, his head bowed. "It was my fault. I had the rope Selmy had given me tied to my saddle, but the mob must have cut it when we broke through." The knight lamely indicated the loose end of the cord on his saddle horn. The other lead was still intact, tied to the hands of a broken and bloodied Meryn Trant. The man must have been dragged on the cobbles during the ride down the hill, but he still breathed.

Jon Arryn was in the rear, rolling on his saddle gracelessly without speaking. Selmy was cut in a hundred places, but had stolen a horse from somewhere. Stannis sucked in a breath of air. Others were in worse condition or missing entirely. "We ride back to the keep. Some man see to Lord Arryn!"


	22. Chapter 21: Two Letters

All men of the Seven Kingdoms, heed the words of your King. Lady Cersei Lannister, the former Queen, along with Ser Imry Florent, former Master of Laws, stands accused of High Treason, Adultery, and Attempted Regicide. For nearly a year's time Lady Cersei maintained adulterous relations with Ser Imry Florent and Ser Meryn Trant of the Kingsguard, aided by the High Septon himself, who defiled both his office and the Sept of Baelor by allowing the Queen to use the Holy Sanctuary as a place of debauchery. Lady Cersei was witnessed in this act by myself, King Stannis Baratheon, Lord Jon Arryn the Hand of the King, Ser Barristan Selmy the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, and Lady Lyanna Stark, along with Ser Preston Greenfield, Ser Arys Oakheart, Ser Richard Horpe, Ser Rendal Royce, Ser Marc Caron, Ser Duane Fossoway, Ser Eltin Piper, Ser Willen Bracken, and others, whose seals are contained in this letter.

Ser Meryn Trant has confessed to the deed himself, and will be allowed to take the Black.

The marriage between Lady Cersei Lannister and the King is annulled and she is stripped of her title as Queen. As children born of an adulterous wife, Cyrenna Baratheon and Steffon Baratheon are removed from the Line of Succession and are hereafter to be known as Cyrenna Waters and Steffon Waters. The High Septon and Most Devout of King's Landing will be judged by their peers, the Most Devout of the realm at large.

Done in the Light of the Seven, under the sign and seal of Stannis of House Baratheon, the First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, and Lord of the Seven Kingdoms

* * *

All men of the Seven Kingdoms listen now to the words of the One who speaks for the Seven on Earth, the High Septon of Baelor. By now you may have seen the words of King Stannis Baratheon, calling the good Queen Cersei a harlot and a traitor. Know that these words are lies of the foulest variety, perpetuated by an impious man who respects neither bonds of fellowship, nor ties of blood, nor the gods themselves. The King's impiety is known to all of you, as is the Queen's piety and righteousness before men and the gods.

What is true is that King Stannis and his coterie stormed the Sept of Baelor, slew men of the cloth, and dragged the Queen from the shrine of the Maiden, stripping her bare and forcing her to walk the streets of King's Landing naked. All the Most Devout testify to this, and their seals are contained herein. What the King promised the ruffians who accompanied him is uncertain, but what is certain is that the King plans to replace Good Queen Cersei with his mistress, Lyanna Stark, a worshipper of the Old Gods whose name is synonymous with Witchcraft.

Done in the Light of the Seven under the sign and seal of High Septon of the Sept of Baelor, the Voice of the Seven, and the Emissary of the Father.

The High Septon placed the letter on the desk next to him, and looked expectantly at his audience. A self-satisfied smile stealing over the Lady's features. "I believe that will have to do," The High Septon stated. "Any more time spent agonizing over the wording will be time that it is not flying away across the Seven Kingdoms."

"I love it," she said, laughing, her green eyes sparkling in the candelight. "You have the ravens to send it out?"

"The Red Keep is not the only tower in the city with a ravenry. Our letter will not go out as wide as theirs, and sadly the Lords of the Realm are less pious in these days than they once were, but some will doubt, and that must be sufficient for the moment. Men might believe the King, but they love him little enough that they will not run to him if they have half an excuse. He is not the sort who easily commands the hearts of men."

Cersei laughed, and it was with effort that the High Septon schooled his features, resisting the urge to grab the letter opener from his desk and gouge out her sparkling eyes. Damn the woman, she had the temerity to laugh, when they were so close to ruin? If discovery had been forestalled for even a few years more, the situation might have been salvageable, but this was near total disaster. She had been too bold, pushed too hard, and now everything sat on the edge of a knife. But the High Septon did not gouge out her eyes. She had uses still. His face remained calm and impassive.

She shook her head at him, still smiling. "If all septons were so engaging, my dear High Septon, I should have truly been a pious woman. How did my father buy you, I wonder?"

The High Septon had not been bought in a very long time. "I have a great degree of respect for your father, that is all," he demurred. "My nature is such that I must serve someone, and why should I serve any but the strongest and the most clever?"

"Mayhap you should save your sweet nothings for his ears," The queen said with a laugh. "They do not earn you any favors with me. And there is more to you, I know. Would my father approve of what you've done here?"

Her father would be apoplectic with rage if he knew the truth. But he did not, and would not. Tywin Lannister would play his part admirably. "Your Father commanded me to watch after you, here in the capital." The High Septon's face expressed injury. "Have I not done so?"

* * *

A/N: Apologies to everyone for the last chapter. I think I've fixed it now. No idea why it was all in rich text, that's now how it initially appeared from my end.


	23. Chapter 22: The Queen of Bastards

"Shall I marry the Prince?"

"Never, you shall marry the King."

"Shall I be queen, though?"

"Aye, queen, but only in name, unloved and powerless."

"Will the King and I have children?"

"Yes. Two for you, and twice that for him. But only bastards shall you bear him, and they and the King both will curse your name.

* * *

Cersei hardly thought of the prophecy after that first, awful night. The words were dark and terrifying, but Cersei was no meek child to hide under her bed from snarks and grumpkins. Old Maggy the Frog was a mummer, and a good one at that, but Cersei was a Lannister and lions did not cry in fear.

When Jaime was made to leave for the Wall, she did think of Maggy's words for a moment. Unloved Maggy had called her, and with Jaime gone she felt an itch of fear. Jaime had always been her shield, but now he was taken from her, wrenched away by her new husband.

But still, the fear did not cut deep. Her husband the king hated her, but loved her too, and hated himself for it. He ached for her touch nearly as much as he was repulsed by it. And her duty was not so unpleasant either. There could hardly be a man more different from Jaime. Stannis was rough instead of gentle, black instead of golden, hairy instead of smooth, but still, not all those changes were for the worse. They had said this older brother was a whoremonger, and well she could believe it. Stannis was little different, she expected, except that he kept his passion chained, as though he expected it to break free and trample someone.

One night, as they sat next to each other after a feast and the wine was strong in her, she touched him on the shoulder, relishing the shudder that ran through him. "Your Grace," she said sweetly, a drip of derision entering her voice in spite of himself. "Your Grace, your Stormguard is such a fine body of men. My Lord father has begun to copy them, you know." Her hand drifted down his strong back.

"I know this," Stannis stated, his eyes closing and his jaw tensing. "What is it that you want?"

Her hand proceeded under the table now, nearly touching his thigh. "As you say, I cannot command your Stormguard. They are the King's. They are yours, and not mine. But perhaps it would be right for me to have some small guard of mine own? A few of my Lord father's men, at no cost to the crown."

The King's voice became hoarse with strain. "You can already have half a dozen of your father's knights around you at all times if you desire. If you expect greater peril than what they can guard you against, perhaps you should speak to my Whisperer."

Cersei pulled her hand away, heat rising to her face. Stannis was looking at her now, his eyes burning with desire, but also resolve. "I do not ask for anything unreasonable," she stated, rebuking him.

He was silent a moment before he replied. "As my Queen, you have all the power accorded to you by right, including a third of the Red Keep's management. Most of the servants are yours, and a third of the knights are your father's. You control what is served for food, what is drunk as wine, what clothes the fool wears, and what songs are sung. This keep is more yours than mine. You have been given more than is your right, and if your lord father had wanted more still, he should have negotiated for that with the Lord Hand."

Her grip on his leg became more forceful. Her father had negotiated with Jon Arryn, but the Old Falcon was as shrewd as an old fishwife, and the King had not been willing to budge on the issue of armed guards. "Why should you fear me being better guarded?"

The King raised his goblet to his mouth. "I fear nothing. But your ambition is a black pit which can never be filled, and the realm has other needs."

She felt the fear again when he said those words, for the second time in as many months. Was this what that cursed Frog had meant, all those years ago? No, no, surely not. The king did love her, and fear her too, whatever else he said.

Later that same night, Jon Arryn had come to see her alone. She knew better than to worry about the impropriety of the meeting; the old man was as shriveled and dry as a raisin.

"I had thought of a woman who you might serve well as one of your companions," Lord Arryn said, a near-toothless smile gracing his face.

"Are my rights so limited that you now presume to command me even in my personal attendants?" She regretted the words immediately, but Jon's smile did not waver in the slightest.

"No, my queen, I would never command you. But you need name a few more women, and I know one that would suit your purposes well. Lady Lyanna Stark is coming to Red Keep soon."

The Wolf Bitch? Cersei had to admit she was curious. What had Rhaegar seen in that child? Or else, in what degree was Elia so lacking as to drive him to her? As to Lyanna herself, there was little mystery there. The idea that she had been forced was a polite fiction that no woman who had ever seen Rhaegar would believe.

"She is as near a peer to yourself as any," Jon continued, his kindly demeanor a constant. "And this would provide her an opportunity to stay with her son in King's Landing. I am given to understand that she would value such an opportunity highly." He paused, significantly. "This would be a favor to House Stark, one that they will not forget."

There was something to that. If the King could not be bent to work with her, then perhaps she could seek allies farther afield. Lyanna Stark would bear the King no love, given what he had planned for her son. Her husband the king was a fool if he thought that the Starks would love him for his hard-handedness. As to Stannis himself, she could already hear his aggrieved tone ranting endlessly about how foolish Robert was for caring for her, how Ned was more loyal to Robert than to him...

She smiled. "Yes, I think she will do nicely." If the King was determined that she should stay in his shadow, she would make friends there in the shade.

And so she had found them. Imry Florent, a man from an important family for whom the King bore no love. Kyra Frey, a rebellious young wastrel who still had good connections with the Twins. Selyse Florent, appointed as a favor to her cousin, but useful in her own right. Lysa Arryn, the Hand's unhappy wife and a miserable gossip. If Stannis or his Rat saw what she was doing, they did not comment. Perhaps they even approved. After all, what harm was there in the Florents and Freys being tied closer to the throne?

Lyanna remained cool and aloof from Cersei's attempts to sway her, too dull and detached to even note what it was that Cersei offered her. Still, Cersei did not view her completely as a wasted effort. The little bitch had teeth, and her barbs cut those in Cersei's circle down to size when they thought themselves too haughty. Neither was she so beautiful or personable that Cersei had cause to fear her as a rival. She had good hair, true, and fair skin, but she was altogether too thin and bony to ever be considered beautiful, and her demeanor brooked no friendship. Indeed, she wondered what Rhaegar had ever seen in her. The poor man must have been incredibly desperate to set upon her.

More days than not she found her steps leading her to the sept. Once she would have called an appeal to the masses as a sign of weakness, but now she hardly cared whether she appeared weak or strong. What did it matter, if it gave her what she wanted? She could kneel and scrape for an hour a day, and for that and an ounce of pride she could buy the love of thousands of devout simpletons.

On one particular evening, she was called upon by a member of the Most Devout. The man was tall, bald, and fat, smiling graciously and smelling of flowers. More than anything else the man reminded her of a piece of furniture. "Septon Quaryl, my queen," he said to introduce himself, "and I am at your service only slightly less than I am at the service of the Seven. I have heard great tales of your devotion and as I am new to King's Landing, I just came to say how worthy it is of you to support the Faith in such a manner as you have."

Cersei could guess easily enough why this Septon had sought an audience with her. He was a Westerlander from the Golden Sept, and his naming to the lists of the Most Devout had come as a surprise to many. No doubt her father's gold had bought the position, and this man was his agent. She half-wondered if her own piety was cause for Tywin's sending of this man.

"Zeal for the Seven has filled me completely," She acknowledged warmly. "I am glad to see that of my countrymen, I am not the only one to be so fervent."

"Ah, ah," Septon Quaryl shook his head. "I am no countryman of yours anymore, my Queen, I must serve the Faith and the Faith only."

Of course. The Septon would not want people to remember where it was he had come from if he were truly her father's agent as she suspected. Still, she must be sure. "Surely, dear Septon, to serve the Faith is to serve the realm as well, and the Westerlands are a part of that."

He smiled. "Indeed, my Queen. It could be said that I serve the realm in my own way, even as you do in yours."

Shortly after first encountering Septon Quaryl, she arranged a meeting with Pycelle, and for a favor, the old man confirmed her suspicions. Septon Quaryl wrote often and lengthily to their father about the affairs in the capital. Well, that was well then. Quaryl was her father's creature, but as with Pycelle, he could become hers, and an agent amongst the Most Devout was no little thing. The man was clever, obsequious, and always smelled nice, and she came to enjoy many long talks with him. Kneeling and scraping at the sept had never been so pleasant.

She thought of Maggy's words sometimes in those days, but only to laugh at them. Unloved? Her? She was the better loved than the King by common and noble alike. Bastards? She had not the faintest notion of how a wife even could bear bastards to her husband.

Eventually, she came to carry the King's child, though not as quickly as she would have liked. She blamed the King for his delay; for all his lust, he was slow to do his duty. But she would carry the child to term, and then her position would truly be secure. "You will be king, my sweet" she would tell the babe sometimes as she lay upon her couch and the discomforts grew heavy upon her. "You will rule, or else your brother will."

For all the King's hardiness, Cersei had little doubt that she would live to see her child sit the Iron Throne. The King's mind burned like a candle lit at both ends, he went to his solar like a man going to war, and he would not take comfort either in wine nor in her own embrace. Her children would come of age, and then their father would expire.

As the date of her labor grew closer, her discomfort grew, but she could withstand it. Men endured worse pains on the battlefield, and she was not their lesser. Neither the waiting nor the birth truly tested her strength.

What came after was worse.

Cyrenna Baratheon exited the womb red-faced and black-haired, with blue eyes and powerful lungs. Her nose, hair, eyes, and mouth were all her fathers, as many were moved to comment.

"You would never know that there was anything of me in the girl," she said, half to herself one day as she looked at the child. She did not know why she said it, except that the words had been playing through her head all day. A powerful malaise of melancholy had been the rule for her of late, but she had avoided speaking of it even to her trusted associates, lest some overheard statement give rise to rumor. But she was never truly alone. Even in that moment there was one of the girl's nurses there, an ancient hag who had been the King's own wet nurse in some bygone era.

"Oh, my Queen," the old lady replied, a kindly smile playing over her features. "That is the way with Baratheons. Not many think on it, but I've served the family for my whole life and there are things that you notice in such a time that few others do. Neither Robert nor Renly nor Stannis ever had an ounce of Estermont in them. They're all different reflections of their father, and he of his, though he was half a Targaryen."

Ice filled Cersei's spine and she sat up straight, but the hag prattled on, senseless of what she was saying. "The Baratheon look passes from one generation to the next without much care for whatever family they marry into. All the old tapestries from hundreds of years ago show that the Durrandon bore the same features before them." The old woman chuckled. "Men always paint Orys Baratheon, the first one, as a big, black-haired man, but I suspect that he was a fairer creature, more like unto the Celtigars or the Velaryons than to our Stannis and Renly."

What came upon Cersei then was a thing nearly like unto madness. She fled from the nursemaid and went to Pycelle, whose books shortly confirmed everything the nursemaid had said. Cyrenna's chambers were not far from her own and she could hear the babe crying into the night at times, and it made her room seem to shrink around her. Soon she found that she could barely manage to look at the child.

Her legacy was smoke and vapor. The children of her body would not be her own. They would be His and His alone, as though he had sired bastards on some other woman and made them his heirs. She wondered if in a hundred years they would paint her portrait with black hair and blue eyes.

Maggy's words came back to her then, and for the first time in a long time, they cut her deep.

But only bastards shall you bear him, and they and the King both will curse your name.

The King already cursed her name, of that she was sure, and bastards the children might as well be, for all the tie they would have to her. No, Cyrenna was worse than a bastard. She was more like a changeling from the old stories, a child replaced in the mother's own womb by foul magics. That was a more fitting comparison, and in the darkness of her own thoughts, Cersei felt the truth of it. Some traits bred true, but this erasure of lineage inflicted by the Durrandon line was something more like a curse out of a song. Maggy's prophecy was true, all too true, and the babe would curse her name. Of course, she would. Her father did already and she was him, writ small and dickless.

Every social function that occurred required that she trot out her babe, the King's child, and show her for all the world to see. All men praised the child's beauty and good humor, but the praise was sour in her ears. They were but praising her for carrying another man's child into the world. Cyrenna was remarkable because of her father, and the mother was remarkable only by association.

Two for you, and twice that for him.

So what, she would die then after her secondborn? Her bowels churned at the idea. Would she die on the birthing bed, her disappearance unnoted by everyone around her, her children bearing no sign of who their mother was? Would she succumb to some foolish illness? Would she become infertile, and be set aside so that the King might have a male heir from some other line? All these thoughts and more tortured her, day and night.

She would not die for another's legacy.

"Many young women suffer such thoughts soon after birth," Septon Quaryl counseled her as they sat together one even, but a short week after the birth. "You should not make too much of them." He smiled warmly. "Cyrenna has her looks from her father, true, but her sweet temper..." The Septon grimaced exaggeratedly, as though he were a mummer performing to a crowd.

A cold smile graced Cersei's lips, but it died before reaching her eyes. Sweetness of temper was not something she had gained from her mother, either. And how dare the Septon make such triviality out of her fears?

"Regardless, I cannot bear the sight of her," Cersei admitted, and simply stating those words aloud brought her immeasurable relief. "I feel an urge to throw her from the walls of the keep every time her blue eyes and dark hair are mentioned, and one day I may do just that."

"This notion is, as I said, not unheard of amongst new mothers, Septon Terrace writes that..."

Quaryl's exposition on the writings of Terrace died on his lips as Cersei pinned him to the chair with a flick of her eyes.

"Perhaps," the Septon stated, shifting in his seat, releasing more lavender fragrance about the room. "Perhaps what you need is some time away from her."

"I am a mother, Quaryl. I cannot leave the King's child without reason."

"Then a reason you must have, must you not? Your uncle Tygett passed away in the spring sickness, I believe, and you were never able to pay your respects."

"Six months ago," Cersei stated. "And I loved him little enough. This is a poor excuse."

"Nonsense." Quaryl sniffed dismissively. "You loved him dearly, but you could hardly travel to pay your respects to his widow while you were carrying the King's child, now could you?"

Air escaped Cersei's lungs in a great sigh, and for the first time in the week since Cyrenna's birth, she felt a hint of relief.

Her time on the Gold Road gave her much time to think. As the wheelhouse rumbled along so did the wheels of her mind, and mile by mile her thoughts conformed to a concrete image. The visit itself was pleasant but stiff. She had no great love for her father or her deformed brother, and she had other matters to which she had to attend. But they did serve to remind her of what she was: she was a Lannister, and Lannisters did not mewl.

Immediately upon returning, she sought out Quaryl. "You will become High Septon. I have decided this."

Quaryl cocked an eyebrow. "What makes you think that I can do this thing? I am a newcomer and an outsider, and the High Septon is in good health."

"Remarkably good health, yes, he is engaged in a most vigorous and active lifestyle. I am sure that you are aware of what I mean? You've been collecting information for my father for a year now, after all. The fat Septon's appetites cannot be a mystery to you. After all, it was you who told me of the High Shrines, and to what end the High Septon uses them for. You can expose him easily enough, and probably half of his supporters as well. As to gaining support for yourself, well, you will have the support of the truly devout, and the impious can generally be bought or blackmailed."

Quaryl's face remained unmoved. "That might prove successful, but I do not even desire the position. Neither temporal power nor spiritual authority hold any charm for me; I desire nothing more than to be a humble Septon."

Cersei drew herself up to her full height. "You will do this thing because I have told you to do it."

Quaryl laughed, then, and Cersei felt her mouth quirk upward in a smirk. "I paid a visit to a certain widow of Lannisport," she stated flatly, interrupting his laugh. "A Madame Cyrri of Redstreet. I believe you are familiar?"

"Oh," Quaryl said, his moth forming a great circle. "And you threaten her? Or are you threatening me with exposure? Neither will get you very far, I fear. Mistresses are not so uncommon that the accusation would be shocking, and while I've affection for the old woman, there were never any illusions between us."

"I learned much from her, and from Quaryl's former associates." Cersei continued. "Everyone who knew Quaryl in his time in Lannisport confesses to not having seen him in years. They say that he was a mystic and a recluse and that they all half thought him dead. Madame Cyrri confessed to me, while in her cups, that as far as she knew he had died nearly two years ago, with all his servants scattering to the winds. She also confessed that my Lord Father had paid her a sum to keep the matter quiet."

Quaryl said nothing, his merry face gone completely still. Cersei did not stop now, however. "So when I say that you shall become High Septon, you will do it, Septon Quaryl, or else I shall see to it that some of your former associates come to visit you here in King's Landing and expose you for what you are."

Quaryl's face filled with sadness and shame. "A fraud I might be, my Queen, but I take my duties seriously. What you ask… this is not what I would wish, and I do not see what your purpose is."

The Queen's face split into a smile. "Oh, my dear, devout, man. I do not know what you were before you became a fraud for my father's sake, but now you will become a greater one for mine. You will write to him and tell him that this idea of becoming High Septon was yours, and once the Crystal Crown is upon your head, I will have more work for you."

Everything had fallen into place from there. Quaryl became High Septon, after a month of furious politicking and scandal amongst the members of the Most Devout. She had considered bedding him and using him to horn the King, but Quaryl point-blank refused that offer, her blackmail be damned. Strange of him, but no matter. Imry Florent's eyes had been following her since before she married, and he was enough a bold fool to try to give horns to the king.

The new High Septon (whose name for a time had been Quaryl) was able to afford her access to the High Shrine itself, a place where his predecessor had been fond of meeting with young widows and maidens. She had her secret, and the Stag had its horns.

For years the secret was kept. She did not meet with Ser Imry often, and once they were nearly exposed by Meryn Trant of the Kingsguard, her personal guard, but he was quiet enough so long as she wrapped her legs around him from time to time. She contemplated killing the man half a dozen times, him and Imry too, but she needed to bear a child first, and killing Trant would raise more problems than it caused. Instead, she kept the course, arranging her nights with the King, rare as they were, to ensure that she would never get with his child.

She had gotten with child again, and she could not say whose it was. Imry, she hoped, or if Stannis' then she hoped that it was a girl. She could bear any number of bastards to the King, but the Throne would be her get, and not the King's. The pregnancy was long and painful and filled with fear, but eventually, she gave birth to him. She gave birth to her Steffon.

"What was that about the Moon Tea?" Imry hissed to her in the High Shrine shortly thereafter. "You said, you said…."

"I lied." She smiled. "And you were a fool to believe me. You did not even note when I got with child soon after."

"I had thought..."

She sighed, interrupting him. "Never mind that. Are you going to the King with this matter?"

Imry scowled furiously.

"Like it or not my sweet fox, you have lain with the Queen, and rise or fall we will both do it together. Have some cheer and keep the secret. Your son will sit the Iron Throne. You're not so much a coward that you missed that, did you?"

Imry's face filled with color. "The boy's ears are mine. Anyone could discover us."

"No one would believe them, so long as we keep our secret."

Imry shook his head. "I have followed this far, you wanton woman, but I can risk it no more. Things between us are done, do you hear?"

"Do that, if you wish." She said simply. "Keep our secret." She whispered. "And you can do whatever you want."

Imry broke gaze from her weakly, searching for something, anything to set his eyes upon. A hawk was sitting in the window above them. Imry regarded it for a moment and then sighed. "Once more perhaps? We are already here, I suppose."

Cersei laughed at that. He could never turn her away, whatever else he said. Words were wind, but Imry's moreso than others. She knew that her plans were desperate, but she did know that Imry would never betray her.

He even came for her, when everything had gone wrong. Maggy had said that she would be unloved, but Imry had come for her. It was a far-flung hope, but when everything had fallen apart she clung to it. Maggy had not seen everything. They came to the High Shrine again, and he whirled on her, his face was black with rage. Any remaining hope in her died.

"Trant." He hissed. "They caught you with Trant. Do you share your bed with half the court?"

She studied her nails absently, horror filling her with every breath she drew. She could not afford to be weak, lest her few allies depart from her. This was it. This was what the prophecy had referred to. Her babe, her Steffon, the only thing that she cared for, was in the hands of the King and there was naught that she could do. Jaime could have stormed the keep for her, but he was away in the North chasing some fool dream and there was no time to send for him.

She had made the accusation that the King would marry Lyanna as an empty gesture, a dart of an insult without substance, but now in a moment of quiet the in. Two children she would bear, but the King would have four. Who with, then? Everything had fallen apart, and she would die now.

But she was a Lannister, and she would die roaring.

"Trant discovered us first," she stated coldly. "I was but keeping him quiet. Don't taunt me for the sacrifices that I made. You already knew that you were not my only partner." She willed her features to soften. "You were but the only partner that I loved."

Imry caught her by the hand, his eyes black and angry. "Prove it to me, then." he stated, and Cersei forced herself to smile in reply.

Afterward, when she walked away, sore, the High Septon came to her with his letter. She was strong then, too. Quaryl would not turn on her, at least. He was a smarter man than Florent and could read the writing on the wall, but she could not let him think her broken, lest he betray her to her father.

Finally, when she went to her chambers in the Sept for the night and sent all the Septas away, then she was strong too, for most of all she could not be weak in front of herself.


	24. Interlude: From North to South

The sword went spinning away into the summer snow not far away. Jaime laughed.

"Still too slow," he stated scornfully. "You might be a match for a one-eyed spearwife, if she were asleep, unarmed, and chained to a wall."

If Qhorin minded the jibe he didn't show it. "Again," he stated flatly, retrieving his blade.

A few moments later, he had to retrieve it again.

"I am surprised at you," Jaime taunted, circling the man. Few men could claim to have bested him with the sword. Quorin was one such, or had been before losing most of his right hand to a wildling ax. Even now he was one of the quickest swords on the Shadow Tower, lesser only than Mance and Jaime. "All those long nights, ranging the distant wastes… so much time to train the strength of your left hand, and yet now that you are forced to rely on it for nobler purposes, it's as weak as a girl's."

Quorin replied with a thrust of steel. Quicker this time, and with the intent to kill. The Halfhand might maintain a frosty demeanor, but clearly, Jaime had struck a nerve. He redirected the force of the blow to the ground and unceremoniously stepped on the blade with his boot, forcing it from Quorin's hand. "Perhaps one of Alliser's green recruits would be a better partner for you?"

"Which of them is greener than you?" The Halfhand groused, picking up his blade again, and now Jaime had to laugh.

"Twelve times I've ranged past the wall, and still you call me green. I suppose you call any man green if they be less ancient than yourself."

Another clash of steel. Another lost sword. "Being older than an untested boy of scarcely twenty years is no great achievement." Quorin flexed the fingers of his left hand. "I think that will be all for today?"

"Tired of losing your sword?"

"Intent on not losing my hand. My fingers are still building their strength, and we've been at it for an hour. Go bother Mance if you're still spoiling for a fight. The rest of us have other matters to attend to." The man's tone was gruff, but Jaime could sense that underneath it all he was pleased. And why should he not be pleased? Last week he had only been able to continue his practice for half the time.

Perhaps Jaime would seek Mance out. That the idea appealed to him so much was still somewhat surprising to Jaime. What would Arthur Dayne, or Gerold Hightower, or any other of the White Brothers have made of Mance Rayder, half-wildling bastard of the Night's Watch? The man had a better sword arm than Hightower had. Better taste in music, too, though that was no great achievement.

Jaime could guess what they would say. He knew what he had said when he had first joined the Watch so many years ago. He had expected privilege and honor beyond his knowledge or experience. He had expected his skill to be more important than any other thing they could teach him.

Slowly, slowly, they had broken him. Sent him away in the woods on a ranging to starve until he gave up his pride. Forced him to fight left-handed to teach him humility. Given him a post in the stewards for a year and let him do nothing but keep books. Jaime smiled. He had hated it. He had cursed Quorgoyle and Mormont and half a dozen others. The idea of Hightower or Martell or Selmy being subjected to such treatment still made him smile. They would bear the hardship even worse than he had

No, the black brotherhood was not so glamorous as the white. But they were truer, in spite of that. At least, the brothers who were false wore it openly and carried the falseness with them from their past life. The cloak itself did not force one to break their oaths. The world was simple here, at the edge of the world. To the south lay everything to be protected; to the north lay everything to be defended against. Mance might argue with that, but Jaime thought him a fool for that. What falseness could there be in defending the realms of men against reaving murderers?

Jaime espied Mance himself coming across the yard and felt his face split into a grin. His humor was not diminished upon seeing a diminutive figure trotting by Mance's side. Benjen Stark was not yet quite fully grown, but he would not be tall even when he was. There was something earnest and pure about the boy that Jaime could not help but view with great affection. Moreover, it bemused Jaime sometimes to imagine Ned Stark, the famous hero of the rebellion, as being just as short and earnest as his younger brother.

"Good day, Jaime," Mance called. "Look what the shadowcats have chased to our doorstep!"

"Alas, I hope that they have not separated him from Mormont," Jaime allowed. "You know that Stark cannot be far from his master for too long."

Benjen took the jibe with a good-humored smile. "I was coming back from the Frostfangs and found myself in the neighborhood, so I'm hardly farther from Castle Black than I was earlier. In any case, we from Castle Black have to check up on you reprobates here at the Shadow Tower from time to time to make sure that you aren't selling all of our weapons to the wildlings in exchange for jewelry and furs."

"Not fair," Jaime added. "Mance would never sell steel to a wildling for treasure. He'd do it for a song, and call it a bargain."

"A song that isn't given freely isn't worth anything," Mance laughed. "But in any case, we're both come from Mallister. There's a letter arrived from the South that concerns all three of us, and we were sent to fetch you."

Jaime frowned. A letter that concerned Stark and Lannister must be of political import, but why should Mance be considered?

They were in Mallister's solar in minutes, beating the snow from their cloaks and rubbing their hands and faces as the warmth filled them again. Mallister was sitting on the other side of his great oaken desk, a massive spread of letters and ledgers out in front of him. Ser Denys, with gray hair and stern, frowning wrinkles, had been lord of the Shadow Tower for nearly as long as Jaime had been alive. It seemed near impossible to separate the man from the stones of the tower himself, so fixed was his position here at the Wall's western end.

"Lord Benjen, Ser Jaime, Rayder." Denys addressed them in order, pulling a letter from the pile and pushing it over to them. "Please sit, all of you."

Jaime sat and read. The letter was not long. A few simple lines written with an elegant style.

He felt a heavy hand on his arm. Mance had him by the wrist. His hand had gone for his sword without thinking, and even now, the blade's steel was half out of its scabbard. For half a heartbeat he stubbornly persisted in fighting against the older man, but Mance had leverage and was bigger and stronger in any case.

With a strain, he cursed and pushed his blade back to his sheath. Mance's firm hand released him, and he rose with a curse. "You all had already read this, I assume," he half hissed, pacing the room like a caged cat. "Mance was just here to stop me? You were afraid that I should have a run at Benjen here?"

Mance made no attempt to deny it. "No fear of me taking sides with respect to Southron politics. I'm the perfect man for the job." There was a hint of pain in his smile. "Benjen, though, was as duped as you were."

Indeed, the boy was still reading, seemingly unconscious of the tension in the room. Denys Mallister coughed. "You realize, of course, that this changes nothing for you. Your oaths are your oaths, and your only siblings are the black brotherhood."

Jaime felt blood rush to his face. What was there to say? That these accusations were false? He could not be sure of that. Cersei never wrote him, but his uncle Kevan did on occasion, and he wrote of a loveless, but fair marriage. Cersei, sweet Cersei. She had everything a woman could ask for, and yet still Jaime could all-too-easily believe this of her. She had always been the best, had always wanted the best… and the king might be an honorable man and a good husband and yet still displease her.

That Selmy had testified damned her. That white cloak might be equal parts proud and deluded, but he would not lie about something like this, not even for his king. Jaime had no illusions there, though he expected his father and others would. Father did not believe that integrity existed in the world.

There was no question in his mind as to whether or not he could cut free of the Night's Watch. Mance's height and length of arm would be no advantage in these close quarters. Next to him, Stark and Mallister barely merited consideration. Once free of the room he could travel all the way to the stables without leaving the fortress, and all of the Black Brotherhood together could not stop him, so long as he fought them in narrow passageways. But no, the stables were a trap. The boats would be better, and with the winds as they had been he could likely be in Lannisport in a handful of weeks, where he would be received with open arms.

But should he cut free? Should he turn his cloak again? He was false already, what was one more falsehood? What was it to stain a cloak that was already black? For the love of his sister… was that not a noble goal? He did not, he knew, love her as he once had. She had said when they last parted that they should never speak again, and she had been faithful to that promise. In the long cold nights of the Watch he had been given time to think. Altogether too much time, more than enough to see how twisted and sick she had been. She had made him false as much as the Kingsguard had. Still, a part of him ached for her. Not her body, for her person. It pained him to think what should soon befall her, unless he act quickly and decisively.

All these thoughts and more were but a breath to him. Deliberation was the domain of weaker men. His pacing stopped before he had crossed the room twice. "Stark," he said, and the boy's eyes turned to him, only a hint of fear appearing in those sharp gray eyes. "What is it you mean to do?"

The boy moved to speak, but stopped himself. He looked down and away. "There were… things that my family did, in their time. I tried to help them, but every time I just made things worse. Eventually, I realized that if the thing they were asking of me wasn't, if I wouldn't do it for anyone else, then I probably shouldn't do it for them either. And I've sworn an oath, here."

"A lot of words to say little," Jaime stated. "And you don't even look me in the eyes to say it."

Stark's neck quirked upright, his gray eyes locking onto Jaime's own. "What should I do?" His teeth flashed in a fierce smile and gestured around him. "No more than what is expected of me. My sister knows that I will keep my oaths."

At that moment, Jaime felt as though some great burden had been lifted from his shoulders. She had made him false, once. She had spurned him for staying true. He would not turn false for her again. Jaime smiled and turned to Denys Mallister with a broad grin. "Quite right. You see that Stark and I are united on this subject, so you have nothing to fear from us."

Denys Mallister gave only an uneasy nod in reply.

* * *

Greyshield burned and warmed Euron with its heat.

"Lord Euron, the isle is ours!" Euron turned his gaze upon the speaker. A short, dark-haired son of a Codd's salt wife. He was an ugly child, with a spotty complexion and a lazy eye. A worthless, disgusting creature, and that was why Euron loved him best of all his reaving party.

Euron smiled at the boy, and for once his smile was no lie. Oakenshield, Greyshield, Greenshield, and Southshield would all be done for by now. They were not allies with the Lannisters, but the truths that Tywin had let slip to them had rendered the greenlander defenses useless. Whoever these friends of Lord Lannister were, they deserved every approbation.

Euron's joy had crested. During the approach, he had felt excitement, hope for the rush that would come. The mere idea of the Shields falling to stealth and treachery would have been enough to sate his hunger for days. The actual sack itself, the stunned expressions on the faces of the guards as the Ironborn surged over their ill-prepared walls, that had been sweeter still.

Now, though, was what he had most waited for. Now, when the sack had turned ugliest, when the best loot and the fairest maidens had been claimed, now did his spirits rise the highest. No good loot was to be had anymore, and third sons of salt wives turned their knives upon each other, arguing over which of them would rape this old widow or take that pouch of coppers. Euron laughed for the sheer delight of it.

"Hear me now, lads!" He called out to the raiding party in the courtyard. Most disregarded him and continued with their plunderings. These he paid no mind. To him, the screams and the smell of burning were like holy songs and pleasant incense. Some, though, looked up to him, and to these, he smiled. "I see that some of you rage and grasp at more, angry that you have lost your fair share. Perhaps you have, but have cheer! For this will not be the last of the plunder, nor the sweetest of it. The whole of the Mander lies at our disposal, a great, wide river lined with fat greenlanders who have grown comfortable in our centuries of absence!"

A cheer went up, for a moment drowning out the screams and the shouting. Euron stepped up onto a pile of destroyed furniture and spread his arms. "Take! Enjoy! For have you not earned this? My father and his New Ways broke upon these shields, but you, you my hounds, you have broken the shields utterly! Take pleasure in what is yours! I claim nothing for myself!"

The cheering now was deafening, and Euron laughed to hear it. He jumped down from the heap, humming a tune he had heard some time ago, he could not remember where. Where should they go next? Highgarden, perhaps? Or Oldtown? At that moment the stars themselves seemed within his reach.

The gods bless Tywin Lannister and his whore of a daughter.

* * *

"Yer Grace," The man exploded, rushing into the tent. "There are signs of the Stormlander army withdrawing!"

The man had come here from some distance; the dust of the road still hung heavy on him. No doubt he had run for hours to tell them this and had yet to take refreshment. But then, the man known as the Vulture could hardly be surprised. His band of cutthroats been fighting a losing war now for months, retreating into the hills further and further, their horses growing gaunter by the day a grass grew scarce and water precious.

His host, though it had hardly ever merited the term, was no more than a few thousand men of little training, was dispersed all over the Marches, and even though sometimes he could get a runner over to one of the nearby camps, his power over the host as a whole was nearly destroyed. Divided and hungry like this, they were little better than dogs, and the Vulture kept a healthy horse ready for himself at all times in case he needed to leave in a hurry. If the king's army were truly retreating, perhaps he could return his army to their former glory. The implications of this retreat were not lost upon his court of brigands. Smiles and exclamations of joy rippled through the tent as through water.

But the Vulture would not be content until he knew more. "Why are they doing this thing?" He questioned sharply, and his voice dried up the mirth in the room as suddenly as the messenger had brought it.

"We do not know, yer grace." The messenger stated, surprised to be met with anything other than rejoicing. "They say there is a war up north, that our little band is now of less interest. There are settlements nearby that they was protecting that we can take for our own now, with food and water enough for all the men."

No, no, this would not do. "Food and water enough? Is this the only ambition you have?"

The messenger only winced in reply.

The Vulture laughed, and his court pulled back, more wary of his good pleasure than of his sharpness. "This is good news that you bring us," he allowed, and tension bled away as quickly as it came. "Tell the camp that we move again at sunset."

One of his court, a once-fat man who had been a man-at-arms for house Caron in some distant past, stepped forward. "Your grace," the man stated, uncertainly. "Where should we ride to? Surely, you do not mean to ride further into the hills? Beyond here there is nothing but sticks and rocks and shadowcats."

The Vulture sipped his wine. "Further into the hills? This is an insane thing you are accusing me of." He laughed again. "I promised you all great riches did I not? What riches are in the hills?"

His court wavered. "You mean, " the man-at-arms said eventually, "That we should be taking food and water after all?"

"Aye, but not from these villages. Their bold protectors from the Stormlands will already have taken their livestock and dried up their wells. The army that now retreats from us has both supplies and riches; we cannot have one without the other."

The face of the man-at-arms grew red. "Your Grace," he blustered. "We are but three hundreds, and they are five times that! Even if we could meet up with Bone-leg's band, or Cowrith's, those men are near as beset as we are. Do you mean to get us all killed?"

The Vulture gave a small smile. Only rarely had he been so openly challenged by a member of his court. One man in three of his host was intensely loyal to his person, and the others could be easily led. The gods had gifted these men as man-killers, but they had born to work the earth. The Vulture was as far above them as the sky was above the earth. Inciting fear had always been a talent of his, but common men were easier to cow than nobles. They had less pride and a stronger sense of self-preservation.

That sense of self-preservation worked against him now, but he still held the reins. "Do you challenge me, Derro?"

Derro's color vanished, and he faltered. "No, your grace," the man managed. "I just mean that, well, I wish to hear your plan for the attack."

The Vulture nodded with approval. Much better. "The Stormlanders will be in a hurry to get North to this war of theirs, yes? This will make them careless, and we know these hills far better than them. They think us defeated, little more than the dust beneath their feet." His smile widened. "This day will be the day they learn that the dust can hide a viper."

And if the gods were kind, perhaps the Vulture hunters might keep their force in the Marches for some time yet.

* * *

"It wasn't us at the Sept, I swear it."

"Save your breath Jamen, you'll be short on it soon enough when the hangman gets to you." Ser Semiv's stomach churned at the thought. There had been hanging and hand-cutting and head-chopping every day outside the Red Keep. It was an ugly business, but if Ser Semiv hadn't the guts for it, why had he accepted this position?

"It wasn't us." The man swore. "We was down, patrolling the Street of Silk, any man could tell you that."

"Fine, I believe you. We'll spare you the drawing and quartering, but you're still hanging, you and all your friends. You took bribes from the Master of Laws and raised your arms to murder the King's appointed commander."

The King's appointed commander was himself, but he saw no need to speak of the crime in personal terms. An attempted murder was attempted murder. The goldcloaks were nothing more or less than a band of thugs tasked with pushing the smallfolk out of the way of the nobility, and Semiv's trying to make it more than that would doubtless end in blood. The goldcloaks he had inherited had been corrupt, lazy, and useless. After years of executions and bullying, he'd managed to make them slightly less corrupt, lazy, and useless. Naturally, they would try and kill him for this.

In any case, there had been attempts on the King's life as well. Semiv supposed that his being marked alongside the king was something like an honor.

"Florent said, ser, that you was plotting treason." The man whimpered. "What was we supposed to do?"

"If Florent said the sky was green, would you believe him? Murder is against the law as much as treason is, and you shouldn't need the Master of Laws to tell you that." Semiv wished, rather than believed, this to be true.

"Besides which, you had a miserably stupid plan for killing me. If we weren't already hanging you, I'd box your ears for a clumsy idiot. Of course I'd have guards ready to defend my chambers. Trying to knife a man in his sleep never works, it's the first thing any man prepares against. You'd have been much better off trying rat poison in my wine."

The goldcloak blinked at that.

Semiv rolled his eyes. "Good news for you lot is, I lied about the hanging. The King's feeling generous. Happens as he's sending a ship up North soon enough, and you shits are going to get off easy and be allowed to take the Black." Whimpers spread through the accused, and Semiv laughed. Gods, but he loved sending people to the wall. No gory executions bloodying up his streets for one thing, and for another it warmed his heart to think of all the sorry pissants he'd sent up there, still freezing their asses off years later.

"I'd rather die!" one man cried. There were always a few who said that, though Semiv wondered if they felt the same when the floor dropped out from under them. Though assuredly many wished that they had chosen hanging once they got to the Wall.

"Ser Semiv!" A voice called from the doorway. A page. "Word from the King. You've been tasked with readying the goldcloaks and bringing them to the Keep."

Gather what was left of them, anyway. "Let the King know that it will be done.."

One man in four had been in Florent's pay, and most of those were now dead or had run off with Florent and the Queen. Of the remaining two thousands, half of them were busy throughout the city, and of those that weren't, he trusted less than half of them. Still, he gathered what he could They made a pretty impressive sight, all lined up, but so did the Blackwater if you didn't have to smell it.

The Stormguard had gathered as well, and Semiv gave their commander a begrudging nod. He had never been on good terms with the man, even if he trusted him. Fortunately, Horpe of the Kingsguard was there as which meant that Semiv would not have to contend with the Lord Commander of the Stormguard. Semiv did not love Horpe either. The knight of bats possessed neither experience, wisdom, or patience. Unlike the Lord Commander he at least did not have a stick up his ass. Horpe rode over as Semiv finished ordering his men.

"I'm taking the bulk of the Stormguard and the goldcloaks marching out of the city," He stated flatly. "You're to raise a thousand more goldcloaks here within a month, and also establish order in the city."

"What kind of shite order is this?" Semiv questioned. "The city's only just barely stopped rioting and I don't trust the goldcloaks out of my line of sight, let alone out of my city."

"It's an order from the King," Horpe said, producing a letter with the King's seal. Semiv took it and read, frowning. Bloody kings. Who had come up with the idea of kings in the first place? Not that Semiv had a particular grudge against the current one.

"Tywin Lannister comes up the Gold Road with ten thousand horse," Horpe intoned. "He'll be over the Blackwater Rush within a week."

The words fell from Horpe's mouth like an executioner's blade. The city may as well already be sacked, with those numbers. From which of the seven hells had Tywin conjured a host so quickly?

"And so what, we march out and fight them with less than a fourth that number? Where's the King's army?"

"Still rallying up by the God's Eye with the Blackfish. They'll have three times Tywin's numbers when they're all together, but if they rode now they couldn't match Tywin or get to us in time." Horpe paused. "I haven't given up hope, though. We can hold the Lions at the bridge over the Northern Fork. The King's sent word ahead to burn the bridge and fortify the crossing. Even outnumbering us five to one, Tywin will make the Blackwater run red with Lannister blood if he tests us."

A bark of a laugh escaped Semiv. "Do you see the same goldcloaks I do? The Stormguard might hold, but with those numbers, my sorry lot will break before the first charge hits. You can't beat Tywin this way."

"I never said that I expected to beat him," Horpe allowed. "But I do expect to make him bleed royally for it. If we can slow him by a few days, we'll buy time for that army from the God's Eye to get here. If it looks like the casualties will be too steep, he might not chance the crossing at all."

What could he say to that? It was not as though he knew of a better option. "Just keep them away from my city."

Author's Note: Hey, I don't often comment on these stories, but I just wanted to let you know that if you like what you read here, PLEASE review. It warms my cold dead heart to hear from fans.

As to the events of this chapter specifically, I simply found that this was the simplest way to say what I wanted to say without wasting time.


	25. Chapter 23: The Emptying of the Vault

The sound of heavy boots filled the passageway.

Lyanna had been just about to set herself to bed for the night, but now she found herself staring down a dozen men and women, led by none other than Ser Barristan Selmy of the Kingsguard.

"What is the meaning of this?" Her voice sounded shrill in her own ears, and her hand twitched for a sword at her side that was not there.

Ser Barristan seemed rather surprised to see her so upset by his presence. "We are here to assist with the removal of your families from the capital," he said simply. "We've come from the docks just now, where ships are being prepared for this very purpose."

Elia stood beside Lyanna now. "From whom does this order come?" She asked.

"The King," Barristan said simply. "We… I had thought that word would have been sent ahead, but it appears that this is not the case."

"For what reason?" Lyanna questioned.

"Secrecy, I was given to understand." The old knight gave a strained smile.

Thoughts whirled through her head. Barristan had served Aerys, was this his attempt at freeing Aerys' spawn? Had the King resolved to eliminate Viserys in an accident of the sea? Were they merely being removed to keep them out of Tywin's reach?

"I will not accept this on your word alone, Ser Barristan," Lyanna stated, causing Selmy to frown.

She continued before he could interrupt. "I do not consider the security of the Maidenvault to be a small matter, Ser. Now, is there any issue with me seeking out the King and confirming this before anyone is moved?"

Barristan's face flushed red with heat, but he bowed. "No issue at all, my lady. The matter of time is not so very pressing to us. We will not stir until you return, I promise it."

She stormed from the Vault, nearly colliding with Ser Wendel, who was but a few steps from the door of the Vault with a dozen or more of his men-at-arms, all laughing and making merry.

"Ah, Lady Lyanna!" The fat man cried. "My fellows and I come lately from an evening's amusement, and I had thought to pay my respects, before Ser Barristan and the others went in. But now, I see that there is distress upon your face. Is aught wrong?"

Lyanna paused a moment, mind whirling. Perhaps… "Ser Wendel, there is a matter you might address, but..." She winced. "It is not a favor I can fairly ask of you."

"Name it," he stated with a broad smile.

She took in a deep breath. What she asked of him was treason, or might be, but she had to be sure. "Ser Barristan claims he was ordered to remove me, Elia, and our families from the Vault. He has promised not to do so until I can confirm this order with the King himself..."

Ser Wendel bowed, his voluminous shirt bunching up about his neck as he did so. "And you wish to hold him to this promise? It shall be done."

She stood on her toes and kissed him once on each cheek. "Ser Wendel, I will not forget this."

Wendel chuckled warmly. "My Lady," he said quietly, "for what purpose did you think my father sent me here?"

Her eyes widened, but before she could reply, Wendel's face turned stern. "If you would speak to the King, you should be about it."

She stilled her questions and nodded, leaving him there by the Maidenvault.

Finding the King, at least, would be no difficulty. The King spent nearly all his time in his solar, reading and arguing and giving orders. Indeed, at this hour, he could scarcely be anywhere else, unless he had already gone to bed, but she knew him better than to think that. Her soft footfalls echoed throughout the nearly empty corridors of the Keep. She heard the coming of the King and his entourage long before she saw him. The King had not been in his solar, he had been coming down from it, and in a moment she came face to face with him in the hallway.

The last few weeks had been painful for him. Knives in the night and hard labor in the day. The streets of the city had been painted red with traitors, and the cells were overflowing with others. Every one of these trials was written across his face in lines and creases, as though his crown weighed as much as the whole realm together.

"Your Grace," she managed, barely maintaining the minimum courtesy in her address. "I understand that my family and Elia's are to be relocated?"

The King nodded, his face grave. "If you have heard this from someone other than myself, it appears that I have been too slow about my business. These days are long and full of trouble, and other duties pulled me from speaking to you about this first."

Lyanna drew in a breath. Though such a statement should be an insult from anyone else, she knew enough of the King now to know this to be an apology, and an apology from the King was no small matter. The spike of fury lodged in her heart dulled and she cooled her expression. "And what was it that you intended to tell me?" she questioned, "Your Grace," She added awkwardly.

The King looked to the side and frowned. "Walk with me," he stated, his voice low. "I was just headed down to the Vault now."

He went. She followed. They were walking now along a great open balcony that ran alongside the walls of the Keep. Cool night air washed over them, seeming to lighten her troubles with every step they took.

"There," the King stated, pointing out toward the west. She did not know what to look for at first, but presently she saw it. A tiny blossom of light just beneath the western horizon. "That is the army I am sending to stall Lord Lannister. A small band of Stormguard accompanying thousands of goldcloaks and pot-boys with spears."

"Is it wise?" she asked. "They are so near, would it not be better to put them atop the walls? A man atop a wall is worth ten below."

"Had we either walls or men worthy of being called such, that adage might prove true. But have no fear," Stannis smiled, his face cold and angry, his expression fierce and proud. All the same, Lyanna felt her heart warm to see him smile. "Tywin will be dealt with shortly. With his chosen heir leaving the city, he cannot find victory."

"And what will you do with him? The Headsman's block? He still has many friends in the realm, and his only error here has been trusting overmuch in the virtue of his own daughter."

The smile vanished as quickly as it had first appeared. "That error alone makes him a great enough fool to make him unworthy as Lord of the Rock, but his treachery runs deeper. How quickly do you think a man can assemble ten thousand horse?"

"In the North, perhaps eight weeks." Lyanna allowed. "Less time in the southern kingdoms."

"Tywin managed it in three, and had supplies for his men along the roads to speed their progress."

Realization dawned on Lyanna. "He had been preparing for war with the throne."

Stannis stared straight ahead as they walked, his voice cold and unforgiving. "The man's avarice is limitless. Being the second most powerful family in the realm could never be good enough for him. I have accorded him as many honors as Arryn and Tully, but because I did not give him the kingdom, he has always resented me."

"So, what then? Do you think he intended to poison you and use his army to establish himself as Steffon's regent?"

"Four of his lickspittles have tried to kill me since the letter went out. Tywin doesn't keep such scoundrels employed unless he has a purpose for them. It is fortunate that Cersei played the harlot, or else we might never have known of his plans until too late." He laughed coldly "There are enough men scheming against the realm in these days that they are more like to hurt each other than anything else."

He turned to her then, a questioning look in his eyes. "You have studied the usage of arms, I noted."

She flushed. "A little."

"More than a little," he stated firmly.

She did not deny it. She hardly could.

Stannis scowled. "Brynden Tully."

He knew, then. Lyanna bit her lip. She must say something in the man's defense, he did not deserve the King's censure. "He helped me practice, sometimes, and helped conceal that practice from the Queen. But my training in arms predates his assistance." She paused. "My father would not let me wear a sword to court, but he did not prevent me from learning how to use one. If he did not mention it to you, I am sure he only did so because it was beneath your attention."

"You intended to train your son in arms."

She drew in a breath. "Yes, if he shows interest in the Night's Watch, I will prepare him." She kept her voice cool and quiet.

"I had specifically commanded that the children of the Vault not be trained in arms."

"You never gave such a command to me."

A breath of air escaped Stannis' nose. Long acquaintance with him told her that this was his closest approximation of a laugh. "It suits me ill to complain of martial skill when it was last employed in saving my life. I suppose that treachery as much as loyalty has been my salvation."

Quietness ruled for a moment. The riots had finally been quieted, and the moon's reflection played in the bay. Lights played up and down the streets of the great city, and in a sudden moment, Lyanna realized that for the first time, she found the city beautiful.

"I am sending you back to the North," Stannis stated.

She halted in her steps. "I had thought-"

"That I meant to send you to Dragonstone, or the Eyrie? I might have done such a thing a year ago, but I see now all too well where my kingship has been lacking."

Lyanna could not reply to such a statement. He had failed. He had made mistakes. She could not honestly protest this. A year ago she would have laughed at him for saying such a thing, and happily supplied a dozen ways in which he had been an intolerable ass. Now, though, she had some idea of what Stannis had been up against, and could only think that if he had failed, he had failed less than many kings before him, and perhaps that was as much as a man might achieve.

And now, now he was setting her free. It was everything that she had asked for. Everything for which she had scraped and begged so many times. Words of thanks formed and died upon her lips.

Stannis spoke first. "I have lived too long in my brother's shadow, cursing him and everyone who loved him. I raged at him, at Jon, at your brother. Fear and love: a king must wield both if he is to rule. I knew that. Lord Arryn had told me as much. But I refused to become Tywin, and the very idea of becoming like Robert made my blood boil. What, should I drink and whore? Would that make me a better King?

"But that was arrogance and folly. I acted as though there was no matter of duty that I had failed in, that I could only improve by losing myself." He sneered as if in some dark memory. "I do not have to be Robert to make men follow me. I need only be somewhat better than what I have been. You know that your brother is rallying his troops already?"

"The one letter I have from him confirmed this, yes, although… I do not think he will come south in time. One way or another, this war will be nearly over."

"I will need him, all the same. For after. After Tywin and Balon and the Vulture and the Crab and thousands of others are dead, I will need him. I will need him, I will need Tully, and I will need Arryn, should he still live. Your brother and the others have shown their loyalty countless times. What have I done as King to reward their loyalty? Why should I be surprised that Tyrell and Martell make endless excuses against calling their banners against Tywin? I should be surprised that Stark and Tully answer my call at all. The dogs at Tywin's table eat better than the Lords at mine."

The Maidenvault had come into view beneath them, and Stannis gave a quiet nod. "This changes now."

A/N: Character Development Ho! Thanks for reading. Please leave a review.


	26. Chapter 24: Short Hand with a Long Reach

Oldtown was different. Davos had sailed to Braavos, Volantis, Lys, Tyrosh, King's Landing, White Harbor, and a thousand other ports, but Oldtown remained singular, distinct from all the rest of the world. The Maesters would wax lyrical about the city, calling it the bastion of civilization, the resting place of knowledge, and perhaps it was. Men in King's Landing said that time had left the place behind, and perhaps they were right as well. For his part, Davos only knew that the city was different, and he would make no claims beyond that.

The city's nature was so different that you might almost consider the place a foreign country from the rest of the seven kingdoms. A tiny little empire with kingdoms the size of streetcorners, mostly concerned with its own politics and doings. Regions outside the city were but distant, foreign ports to be traded with, and to be read about, but never to visit or to care for.

They took pride in their own singularity. Even the poor here walked tall, happy to be of the greatest city on earth. The dark alleys smelled more of water and earth than of shit and grime, and the great wide streets of the rich smelled of flowers and fresh rain. An Oldtowner, rich or poor, was an Oldtowner first, a Reachman second, and a servant of the king only a distant third. The Iron Throne was a distant name and the Sept of Baelor an irreverent joke. Oldtown ran at its own pace and on its own terms, and the rest of the world had no say in it.

"Seven above, do they perfume the streets?" Arys Oakheart sniffed the air incredulously.

"The only perfume this city wears is the scent of its own produce," Davos replied calmly. "And the wares of the High Street are as fine as any in the world. Have care, however. Men have been known to get lost, following to the sights and scents too keenly."

Ser Oakheart colored. "It hardly matters in any case. We've no time for sights, considering all the stairs we are to climb."

The Hightower stretched high enough to dwarf even such monstrous fortresses as Storm's End and Dragonstone. Davos tried to count the landings and failed. He half-wondered if the place's original builder had even known. Lord Hightower had asked them to meet him in his solar, which was nearly at the top of the great structure. There was doubtless some politicking reason for that. The Great Lord had a point to make, and as far as it concerned him, Davos was happy to let him make it.

"I'll make sure never to mock the stamina of a Maester ever again, with how many of them we've seen scurrying up and down these stairs." Arys laughed as they approached the final steps. "How do they manage it?"

"Not all make the journey as we did. They have lifts, and many of the servants scarcely leave the upper floors. Lord Hightower himself only rarely descends into the city."

"Damned queer fellow."

"A fact you would do well to forget, ser."

At last, they were ushered into the room of the man himself. Hightower's solar had little in the way of adornment, beyond rows and rows of neatly stacked books and scrolls. Wealth was all that Davos saw. Wealth enough to display it carelessly, without tact or style. The man himself sat at the far end of the room, listening thoughtfully as a young lady read to him from a great tome. Some terrible history of misruling kings, it seemed, but Davos heard only the first part of it, for the announcement of his coming interrupted the girl's reading.

"Lord Confessor Davos Seaworth, your Lordship, as well as Ser Arys Oakheart of the Kingsguard."

Davos bowed, although not too deeply. He had learned that much. Leyton's eyes regarded him coolly. The Hightower had weathered his years better than most men his age. He must be nearer to three score years than to two, but his broad chest bespoke an active lifestyle and his dark blonde hair had only begun to go gray. The girl at his side, who Davos supposed must be his daughter, was a fair and sweet maid, but clearly unaccustomed to be present at such a meeting. Davos rose and began to speak, but Leyton preempted him.

"I know what your business here is, Lord Seaworth. Come on then and be out with it, we both have duties that we should be about. Do not do me the disservice of assuming that you need bandy pleasantries with me for an hour before business is to be done."

Davos nodded. "Very well, your Lordship. Ravens fly here more than anywhere, I suppose, and like as not you are more aware of the state of the realm than I myself am." Davos paused. The business he had been sent on was delicate, and he was ill-accustomed to such matters. "I hope you understand, Lord Hightower, that I am not here as part of my regular duties.

"I should hope not. You would be a poor Master of Whispers to meet me so openly."

"The King's small council has grown rather smaller of late. The Hand is indisposed, the Master of Ships is with the fleet near King's Landing, the Master of Laws is in rebellion, and the Master of Coin is imprisoned. I hope you will pardon that only I am able to come here and speak with you. The King's men are stretched thin at this time."

The Lord frowned. "Aye, we all are. My goodson and I fight the King's enemies now, on land and sea."

Davos paused. Hightower appeared unsettled by something, but there was no time to divine it. "The King is aware of your loyalty, my Lord, and thanks you for it, but there is something more particular the King would ask of you."

The Hightower sighed and pushed a stack of books away from him. "Lord Seaworth, I begin to lose patience. There is no need to be so obsequious. You are here for my daughter's hand, yes?" A small squeak escaped the young lady sitting at Leyton's side. "Well, here she is. Full three and ten. Do you think she looks ready to be mistress of half the world? Or had you hoped that one of my other daughters had been widowed?"

The girl's face had flushed deep red, her chest rising and falling dramatically. Seven preserve them all. Davos began to speak, but he did not know what to say.

"Lynesse," Leyton asked, pouncing like a great cat when Davos failed to respond. "Do you wish to marry the King?"

Lynesse's eyes were wide as saucers. "Me? And the King? But he..." her blush deepened and her hands played with each other. She was just a girl, Davos thought, a girl, or a maid only very recently. "I don't know!" she finally exclaimed. "He and I have never even met, and his portrait is so foreboding!"

Leyton nodded and turned to Davos. "Well, there you have it. Perhaps, after the war, they may meet and then Lynesse will be able to answer for me. Courting a woman is best done in person, do you not agree? So it was in my day, at least. Perhaps now all such matters are carried out in absentia." He sipped his wine and offered Davos a baleful glare. "Was there anything else that we had to discuss?"

"Yes," Davos stated, finally finding his voice. "In fact, the point of my visit has not yet come up. I did not come to ask for your daughter's, or anyone's hand. Marriage is rather far from the King's mind at the moment."

Leyton drew back at this. "I had thought…" He paused, as though realizing for the first time the depth of the insult he offered. He waited for Davos to say something, but Davos remained silent, intent on hearing the man's thoughts. "I had thought that you meant to force my goodson's hand," Leyton allowed eventually. "A marriage alliance would make Mace and the King goodbrothers, or near enough, and then the King should have the Reach's full support against Tywin. Or at least, I expected that was how you would see it." He paused again. "I am perhaps being overly frank. Political discussions such as this do not suit me. I am Lord of the finest lands in the realm and I desire little more than stability and peace. My daughters married men of their own choosing, and the idea that the king should… the idea that my acceptance of such a brusque offer would be assumed..." His voice trailed off.

Davos waved a hand. "As a Master of Whisperers, I know all too well what it is to act upon the basis of doubtful knowledge. And in this case, you are not too far off the mark. The King does seek your support, and if marriage for your daughter was something that you desired, we might in time arrange such a thing. But my King is no more eager to marry a person he has not met than your daughter is." Given how the King's last marriage ended, Davos could hardly be surprised at his caution.

Leyton relaxed in his chair somewhat, his eyes taking on a dark expression. His daughter next to him seemed fit to faint away on the spot. "If a marriage alliance was not your first object, what on earth do you mean by asking for my support? You cannot mean to ask me to go against my goodson's direction? We are, as I said, fighting the enemies of the Crown even now."

"No. My Lord, it is not swords we seek from you. It is Septons. The King intends to call a council of all of the great septs of Westeros. The Golden Sept of Lannisport, the Sept of Highgarden, the Merman's Sept from White Harbor, the Starry Sept here in Oldtown, and all the others as well. All of them will send a delegation to stand in judgment over the previous High Septon. His wild claims that he made before his sudden disappearance must be tested for truth, as must all the Most Devout who elected him."

Lord Hightower's surprise did not abate, but his demeanor brightened. A small smile played about his lips. "Ah, I see now what you are about. You need have no fear. The Starry Sept will send a mighty delegation in keeping with their stature as the greatest center for the Faith in Westeros."

Davos allowed that comment to slide. "The Most Devout has defiled their position and the Faith now looks for leadership. For this reason, it is critical that the Starry Sept send a delegation of true-judging men. There is no doubt that the High Septon's claims are false, but what does it say about the men who chose him as the mouth of the Seven?" He locked eyes with the Hightower. "The corruption of the Most Devout must be undone, your Lordship. We must have wise and discerning men amongst the Council of the Septs."

Lord Hightower wore his smile proudly now. "Naturally, and as I am a great patron of the Starry Sept, you would reach out to me with such a request. I assume that the King will stand by the judgment of this council?"

"Justice is the King's paramount interest," Davos stated, closing his eyes. This earned a laugh from the Hightower and a call for more wine.

When they finally began the long climb down the tower, the shadows had grown long and they walked by the light of lamps rather than the light of the sun.

"I do not understand your ways," Arys Oakheart said, finally. "This whole visit seems purposeless. They'll receive the call to the council soon enough. And all this while Tywin and Balon are plaguing the land."

"The Red Keep and the Sept of Baelor are like a Man and Wife, Ser Arys. Neither can order a household without the other. If a wife brings a complaint to her husband against one of her servants, whose side do you expect the man to take?"

Oakheart's face screwed up in confusion. "Don't bandy about with some drawn-out farce. Tell me in simple words."

Davos frowned. He wished that he could say what he meant. But Arys Oakheart was an ax. Reasonably sharp on the one end, but dull on the other. "Patience, ser. I assure you that my intention is not to confuse. Who will the husband support, his servant or his wife? Assume that he does not know whether her complaint is true."

"The wife. Always the wife. Even if only for peace's sake, he'd choose to believe her."

"And so it has been for the last hundred years between the Red Keep and the Sept of Baelor. In all disputes amongst the Faith, Baelor's sept has the King's backing, and in all the wars between the Lords of Westeros, the Crown has Baelor's blessing. What I offered Lord Hightower was free reign to undo all that. The Devout from among the Starry Sept will burn the deadwood from the Faith, Ser Arys, and they will raise up dozens of new men. Faithful men, we must hope, but assuredly men who are loyal to Oldtown and the Sept of Stars."

Ser Arys was quiet a moment. "This is a black business, Lord Seaworth."

"Blacker to allow the Most Devout to continue as they are."

Oakheart made no reply, content to let his heavy footsteps on the stairs speak for him.

Oakheart was young and new to court. When Davos had been young he would have agreed with him. The mouth of the Seven should not be treated as a mere building, to be razed or built up at the whim of a man, even if that man were a king. "This blackness was not our doing, Ser."

They left port the next day in a cog chartered to the Arbor, and Davos had more time to reflect than he cared for. Davos of Flea Bottom had died a sudden death in Storm's End, but Davos Shorthand had lived on even less time, to be replaced by the Rat and the Whisperer. Full casks of blood had been spilled on his orders, and casks more would be spilled ear the month was out. Yes, that was the right of it. Casks of blood from the Arbor and from Ten Towers in place of wine. Once he had lived by slipping away in secret, and now his comings and going were noted by the powers of the realm.

Why had he started down this path? What had driven him? The future for his children? A desire to live an honest life? He laughed at the latter suggestion. He was ten times the liar and the cheat that he had once been, even if he did serve the King's Law. He stared out over the waves. Warm, wet air blasted into his face from the West.

"Milord," One of the deckhands called. "There's ship on the horizon what's been following us for near an hour."

"This is a common trade route," Davos allowed. "Why mention this ship in particular?"

"It's a galley, milord, with no flags 'pon it. I wouldn't mention it, but they've got their oars out and they're catching up fast."

Davos cursed and ran to the far side of the ship to take the Myrish eye from the deckhand. A lean galley, shorter than those of the royal fleet, but sleek and fast, painted dark red with sails dyed black. Why had the fool not mentioned this sooner? As if a common merchant would display such colors.

"Every man to his post!" Davos yelled. "That's an Ironborn galley behind us or I'm a fool!"

The whole ship animated itself as one man, ropes pulling and gears winding. Fear motivated men, and their fear was all the sharper because they had thought themselves safe. And why should they not have felt safe? An ironborn galley, so close to the Arbor, during a time of war? These waters were full of Redwyne oars, and a lone galley could not stand against any of them.

But the how and the why did not matter. All that mattered was the oncoming threat. The ship gained on them inexorably, cutting through the water as though some kind of hellbeast pulled at the oars. Davos sweated and strained and yelled, hunting for any answer he could find. Letters and ravens and plans filled his cabin, but nothing that could save him from something so simple as a single galley of Ironborn in an impossible place.

The Red Galley drew near, and horns of war sounded. The sailors, simple merchantmen carrying cloth and wine, quavered at the sound, and Davos could offer no comfort. Some arrows were exchanged, but Davos had never met a man north of the Summer Islands who could shoot accurately from a rolling vessel, and nearly all the arrows fell uselessly into the water.

"Have no fear, my Lord," Said Ser Arys. "We can kill these scum on sea as easily as land." He'd gathered around himself a dozen deckhands and Davos' own ratmen. Not enough. Not nearly enough. The galley, it's squid-banners now showing openly, came close to them and a surge of dark-haired men in steel came upon their vessel. Arys met them head-on, his white armor spattering red with the blood of ironmen. The Deckhands and the ratmen did well for what they were, Davos supposed, but soon enough they were surrounded.

At first, they fought the ironborn with even numbers, but within a minute half of Ser Arys deckhands were dead or dying and Davos and a few others were all that remained. A hand reached out to grab him and he shoved a dagger in the man's eye. Arys cut down two more that got close, and a deckhand behind Davos cut down a fourth. But then Davos was on the ground, holding his stomach in pain. Had someone kicked him? He struggled to his feet, scarcely noticing Ser Arys next to him, the young knight's lifeblood bleeding out on the deck.

A dozen hands were upon him in a moment, and however he fought he could not get free. A tall, handsome man stepped onto the deck, smiling at him. There was a fell light in the man's eyes that Davos had seen only a few times before, amongst the darkest of the men of the streets of Flea Bottom, and it was all Davos could do to avoid emptying the contents of his stomach.

"You are not an easy man to find, Lord Rat," The man stated. "But no one can evade me forever, and a particular friend of mine greatly desires to meet you."

A/N: Thanks for reading


	27. Chapter 25: Snow at Winterfell

The great galley rolled lazily in the sea, sprays of salt and cold water washing over the deck. Lyanna had not voyaged by sea since Ned had taken her up from Dorne years ago, and despite being in much better health this time, she could not say that this trip was any more enjoyable. On that trip from Dorne it had only been herself and Jon that she had needed to mind. Now Daenerys and Viserys were her wards as well.

The last of these gave her more trouble than all the others combined. Viserys had grown very ill in the passage, a dark fever from the east coming upon him shortly after they left port. The ship's surgeon tended to him as best he could, but they lacked for dry spaces and fire and proper medicine.

"Is Viserys going to die?" Jon asked her, as they sat in her cabin, wrapped in furs.

She shifted. "Aye, eventually," she said, feigning a careless tone. "But there is good chance he will live yet for years and years. Our worrying won't make him live any longer, no matter how much we want things differently." Worry never served a purpose. She should know that better than most. "Think of happy things, little one. Think about the North. Think about your Lord Uncle. We'll be arriving in the autumn, and snow will already be thick about the place."

"Snow," Jon replied, smiling. "Me."

Her eyes sparkled sadly. "Yes. It is your name. A beautiful one, for snow is a beautiful thing."

"Like a blanket over the whole world." he whispered, quoting what she had told him as though her words were sacred.

"Just as soft, and even thicker," She threw another fur over him and hugged him tightly. The boy giggled, struggling to free himself. She smiled. Her boy would see the snow, and his uncles and his cousins as well. Not only for Jon was she happy, but for herself. For the first time she would see the nieces and nephews Ned had written her so much about. It almost felt as though she knew them already. Robert, red-haired and wild. Sansa and her twin, Brandon, both as long-faced and dark as their father. She laughed, picturing her quiet brother swamped with children. The fourth child might be born by the time they got there, if all went well.

Dark thoughts rose up unbidden, like harsh wind from the East. Ned himself might not be there to receive them. He had stayed North for as long as he could, but his forces were already marching South. A streak of irrational fear passed through her, that her brother would die fighting the Lannisters and that she would never see him again. She cursed her own heart for inventing such an idea. Ned would likely not even give battle. All would be settled and done before came south.

Her thoughts turned to the king, to Stannis, and there the fear had more bite. The King would have victory, but what of Stannis? What of her dour friend, with his dry wit and quiet smile? He had been on the verge of breaking, when they last met, of that she felt sure. His own wife had betrayed him, the gods themselves were accomplices to the crime, and the realm, the realm he did so much for, left him to answer the Lannisters with little aid. She focused on Jon and the rolling of the boat in an attempt to calm her mind.

"Milady?"

She sighed, pulling away from her son and facing the cabin boy. "Yes?" What could anyone on the ship want with her so late at night? She schooled her features reflexively, as though this page were about to test her.

"Milady, the… the boy. Viserys." The page fumbled, as though uncomfortable speaking a name without any title. "His fever's broke, an' he wanted to speak with you."

She colored. Who did this boy think he was, to summon her at this hour? Did he still think that his name carried such weight? Why should it be her duty to sit by his side?

But no one else would do it, and though not a king, Viserys was still enough a child that Lyanna could feel pity for him. So she left her son behind and followed the page through the cramped quarters below decks. Why should Viserys Targaryen ask for her? What was was she to him? An aunt? A goodsister? She nearly laughed at the connection.

The boy lay on a cot in his own room, his gold-white locks damp and pushed back from a sweating forehead. But he breathed steadily, and his eyes tracked her as she entered the room.

"Send the page away," the boy said it like a command, but in a moment his expression broke. "Please," he added and Lyanna did as he asked.

"Why do you send for me?"

"You loved my brother," Viserys stated, desperately.

Lyanna's lips drew into a thin line. "For a time." The admission came with some difficulty, but she felt better for having said it. Fear could not rule her.

"Then I must trust you. There is no one else. I need..." His voice came out slurred, but with great desperation and force. "I need to know, where this boat is taking us. I can't trust what the others tell me."

"White Harbor." He should have remembered that much. Or perhaps he did, and he thought the others were lying.

"Are you sure? Do you know?"

"We are now but hours from the port. I saw a ship yesterday with the Merling King upon it."

The boy deflated, his energy giving way to ease. "That is good, that is good. We are to be in your brother's care, then?"

"Yes."

"Do you think you could..." Viserys sighed. "I need you to speak with him. With your brother, I mean. I need you to convince him to let me go."

Lyanna laughed.

"Don't. Don't laugh," Viserys insisted, a vibrant light in his eyes. In that moment Lyanna found it easy to think him Rhaegar's brother and her laughter died instantly. "I need to go. I will go. Have gone, already. I have seen it. We go to Winterfell, and then I go further."

He'd been having the dreams, then. She sighed. Another reminder of her past that she'd as soon forget. Others take the dreams, this boy had enough to trouble him without visions of the future. Still, gentleness would be no kindness here. "Viserys, the only way you shall go farther than Winterfell is if you mean to take the Black."

Viserys settled into his pillows and said no more, tears tracing their way down the sides of his face.

From White Harbor they changed to a riverboat and moved up the White Knife to Winterfell. Gone was the spray of salt and the constant rocking, replaced by the sounds of strong men singing as they polled the boat up the river. Every sight and smell brought Lyanna fresh joy. The farmers carried in their sheaves, gathering the last harvest of autumn, and on the third day it snowed. The children tried to roll and play in it, but there was no space and they got in the way of the crew. With some reluctance the skipper agreed to pull the boat ashore before sunset so that the children could properly enjoy their first snowfall. Viserys in particular seemed to be in good spirits, better than he had ever seen him. He chased Jon and Dany around in circles, carrying an armful of powdery snow.

Wendel, faithful friend that he was, stood behind her in silence. He had been with them the whole way, but curiously uncommunicative. Lyanna half wondered if it had been the presence of the King's men that had kept him silent. "Now you see, Lord Wendel," She ventured, speaking quietly. "I must thank you. A year ago you told me that contentment is no virtue for people of power, and now I've proof of what you say." She gestured at the children. "I've gotten what I wanted."

He chuckled lightly at that. "This was all your plan? You denounced the Queen to gain the King's favor?"

"I already had it. I have had it for nearly a year, I think. At your recommendation, I inserted myself into the politics of court, and in doing so, I think I finally came to understand Stannis. I told the truth about the Queen because I respected him, and he released my Jon because he respected me."

"Or because he wanted your brother's spears."

"He already had them. And as he claims it, he had planned to send us away for some time. This rebellion only made matters progress more quickly."

Wendel exhaled sharply in something like a laugh. "He is King. If he had such a plan, what should delay him?"

"I cannot think."

Wendel shook his head. "But what next? You have seen the truth of what I said, so you cannot be intending to spend the rest of your days as Lord Stark's sister and Jon Snow's mother. Marriage perhaps?"

"Ser Wendel, your pretexts for proposing marriage to me grow thinner by the day."

A good-humored smile covered Wendel's face as he watched the children. "I cannot help myself. You still will not marry me, Lady Lyanna?"

"No." Wendel was a good friend but would make a very poor husband. He might possibly be able to give her children, and once that had been enough to make her consider his proposals, but now there were other considerations.

"A pity," Ser Wendel allowed. "But if not marriage, is there anything else you desire?"

"I shall stay in the North, ride my horse every day, and contemplate no period of time shorter than a season"

Wendel's face darkened, and he turned as if to rebuke her, but her smile stopped him short. "You are teasing me," he stated without rancor.

"You will know soon enough."

They arrived in Winterfell by the end of the week, and by then snow had ceased to seem new to the children. Lyanna's heart ached as the familiar towers peaked over the horizon. When had she seen them last? She had been a girl, then, looking over her shoulder as she rode south to meet with her promised prince.

They would be there tomorrow, she told herself. They had to transfer their things to a wheelhouse, and then their going would be slow indeed, but still it was only a little farther. One more day. The night passed restlessly, and then only hours remained.

At last, the gates of Winterfell itself passed over their heads and Jon's tiny face lit up with wonder. With some effort she refrained from crying at that, but then she saw Ned and all his family awaiting them and nothing could hold back the tears. He came to her and held her tight in a fierce hug.

"Welcome home, little sister."

There were tears and laughs aplenty then, and she met Catelyn Stark and all their children. Afore long she was seated near her brother at the head of the great long table in the central hall, a feast in front of her. When had they both been here in the hall last? Before Ned was sent off to the Eyrie, it must have been. More than a decade ago. Things were so different now, but still Ned maintained the quiet reserve that he always had. The Greatjon sitting by Ned's side showed less reserve.

"Glad to see your you back with us, Lady Lyanna" The Greatjon stated, flicking an overchewed bone fragment onto his plate. "I'd half-feared that you had melted in the heat down there in the south."

"I am, as you see, whole."

The Greatjon snorted. "Took them long enough to give you back. Rhaegar kidnaps and rapes you, and it takes two wars, two dead Starks and over five years to get you back."

"You give me too much credit," Lyanna demurred. "The war had very little to do with me. That was about vengeance for father and for Brandon, and about keeping my Lord Brother alive."

"Ha! True enough. But these Sothrons are niggardly, grasping folk. I was riding with Lord Stark when he vowed to serve King Stannis, as graciously as you might please, and Stannis does not so much as thank him. No, instead he locks you up in a castle like one of those Targaryen princesses."

Stannis had not been the one to lock her away. Lyanna moved to speak, but the Greatjon interrupted her. "Well I say, fuck the South. We have you back, and any reason we had to aid the King in his stupid war is over and done with."

"It is not the King who orders you South," Ned stated, his voice quiet. "I order you South."

The Greatjon's face flushed red. He had been too deep in his cups. "And I will follow you happily. I will, you know that! Why else did I bring all my troops here? I just mean that…" His voice slurred and became unintelligible for a moment. "What did the South do for us when we last ran to their aid? We bled as heavily as anyone in the last war. Loyalty demands a reward! The King owes the North a recompense!"

"Loyalty that demands a reward isn't loyalty," Ned spoke calmly, but Lyanna thought she saw a hint of resentment in his eyes. "Before you speak more ill of the south, remember that it has given me four fine children."

The redness in Umber's face turned to purple, but he made no reply.

Lyanna sipped her own wine thoughtlessly. "I agree with Lord Umber, brother."

Ned replied only with a slight frown. Quiet as ever, she thought, always forcing others to talk more than he.

"I think you should ask the King for favors for the North." Lyanna continued. "You should demand appointments, honors, and gold. The Lannisters and their lackeys leave the Red Keep in droves, and the King must need replace them."

"The North needs to tend to the North." Ned replied. "An honor is a chain as much as it is a blessing."

"The North is poor, brother." Her own bluntness surprised her. "Don't frown at me. It is true, and no one here can argue the point. We've three times the land of any other kingdom and nearly as many smallfolk as the Reach, but what does that mean, if we cannot defend what we have from Ironborn and Wildling? What does it mean to have eight thousand years of stability, when entire holdfasts go abandoned for lack of people to man them? What do our house words mean, when we cannot gather enough food to feed our people through the winter?" She drew in a breath. "A few southern ties might do much to change that."

Ned went very still, and Lyanna felt a slight shiver run down her spine.. Gone was the soft face that had embraced her so warmly at the gates of Winterfell. This was Lord Eddard Stark, and his eyes cut straight through her. "I had not expected you to be the voice of avarice, sister."

Of course he would not. When she had been young, she had held political necessity in contempt. What was an alliance compared to a romance? What was honor and gold compared with glory and song? Not for the first time, she cursed her younger self.

"Avarice is one way of looking at it. A desire for security might be another. That was how our Lord Father put it. But as you say, honors and appointments are chains, too. When Father died, the lords set you over themselves. Would you have done them a favor if you had denied the title?"

Ned frowned, and moved to say something, but Lyanna pressed on. "Ask the King for every honor under the sun, and he will thank you. He needs loyal men, Ned, and loyalty is a currency in which you are rich."

The frosty demeanor that Ned wore had warmed by a few degrees at this speech, but he seemed no closer to agreeing with her. For the moment he did not reply to her. "Lord Umber," He stated kindly. "I believe that your cup is empty of wine. We must send for more."

For the rest of the feast her brother spoke no more of honor or of loyalty. They ate and drank and spoke of pleasanter things. Their children played on the floor not far away, and it pleased Lyanna to see how strongly her Jon resembled his cousins. There was beef and corn and pies and wine enough to drown them all. The first casualty of the night was Ser Wendel, whose fell face first into his own pie and had to be rescued by a servant and then carried to bed. Lord Umber had been drinking more heavily and showing less sign of it, but eventually he met a similar fate to Ser Wendel.

When the revelry had died down, and the Lords were all abed or so deep in their cups as to be insensible, Ned leaned toward her. "Everything you said, of honors and loyalty and asking, I already knew. Hoster made me marry his daughter as a favor, but in turn this has meant cheap grain in winter, and people who otherwise might have starved did not. I am not in principle unwilling to accept southern entanglements."

She blinked in surprise. "Then you agree?"

"That depends." He drew back. "How much do you trust the King?"

The words caught her off guard, but in a moment she recognized his meaning. To be in power in King's Landing was to be the envy of every other power in Westeros. With the King's support, this would be no great danger to bear, but without it… She thought of the disgraceful rumors that surrounded her, of all the trouble those tales might have brought upon her family's head.

"I would trust the king with my life," she stated simply. "I have already done so. If he had not dealt with the Lannisters so effectively, Tywin would be writing to you demanding my head, assuming that he did not already have it. Even then, it likely would have been wise on the King's part to avoid rewarding me at all, to quell these rumors of me being his mistress."

"You have some specific idea of what I should ask the King for." A statement, not a question.

Lyanna smiled. "I do."


	28. Chapter 26: Hold Fast

"We've brought you food," the silky-soft voice of the captain woke him from a fitful dream.

Davos pushed himself up against the hull of the ship, manacles digging into his arms.

"It's poisoned, of course," the captain said, from his stool by the edge of candlelight. He was a Squid, Davos knew, young and handsome, with sharp features and black hair. Euron was his name, and Davos knew little enough about him. One of Quellon Greyjoy's younger sons, not nearly as infamous as Balon or even Victarion, though from what Davos had seen, he soon would be. "Not enough to kill you, just enough to make you pliable and weak. It'll magnify the pain when we put you to the question. There are limits, you see, to what a body can take, but the mind can take more, with some urging."

Davos regarded him not, drinking the cold grey soup without pause. If they meant to kill him, or to torture him for information, they would do so. He could not resist them long in any case, and hunger was as sharp a pain as any torture.

A shadow passed over Euron's features even as the smile did not waver. "I'm disappointed in you," he said eventually. "Names have power, and yours is a black one. Rat. That's not so far from the Rat Cook, and I can hardly think of a fouler name. You do not live up to it. Instead of some dark god in a man's body, I find a weak man of middling age and talents, serving an ungracious king."

"Stannis, ungracious?" he managed, the manacles clinking as he wiped some of the slop on his sleeve. "Rich words to come from the lapdog of Tywin Lanni-."

A hand lashed out before he could finish speaking, sending him sprawling in a bony heap. When he looked up again, Euron's smile remained undisturbed, but his eyes still glinted with malice.

He was working for the Lannisters, then. His anger confirmed it. Stannis had intended for the Lannister Fleet to counteract the Iron Fleet, but now it seemed clear that both had been intended to work in concert. Damn them all.

"You've got an overactive mouth," Euron nearly spat. "I wonder how talkative you would be without a tongue? Many of my men do without theirs, I think you've noticed." Euron's knife appeared in his hand, cold steel twirling between his fingers in a hypnotic dance.

Davos did not taunt him again. Whoever had set Greyjoy upon this path of kidnapping had clearly asked for Davos unspoiled. Euron had left him with no doubt that if it had been otherwise, he would have gutted Davos in a hundred different ways. Still, the man was never far away from atrocity. A few words of provocation too many and Davos' guts would sail in the wind.

Euron turned away, taking the light of the candle with him.

"No…" Davos croaked. "No, don't take it. Just leave me a candle, a little light. Damn you, Damn you!"

Then there was only dark. Dark and silence. Alone, finally, Davos slumped against the wall of the hold and finished his soup.

In truth, the dark did not frighten him. He pretended that it did so that Euron might think himself to have some advantage over him, but he had been in darker places than this before. This was not the first time he had been chained in the belly of a ship, nor even the second or the third. The last time had been aboard his own ship on Stannis' own orders. He smiled at that.

In any case, Davos could do little for the moment. He had done what he could, and he had only one card left to play.

He should like to see his wife again, to see his sons. He thanked the Seven that Dale and Allard had been busy with Mallister's fleet. They might live through this whole mess yet. Had Marya given birth yet? That would be a fine thing. A new Seaworth brought into life just as he exited it. Ah, but perhaps it had not been that long yet. He could not say. And even if she had, she was not out of danger yet, with a Lannister army less than a week away. She had been too great with child to move with safety, but now he wondered if it might have been safer to take the chance. What a world to bring children into. Perhaps it would be kinder if Marya and her child died on the birthing bed.

Perhaps it would be kinder if all died on the birthing bed. The pain that came with life, that was one thing. Davos could accept that easily enough. Pain in the body scarcely registered. Pain of the mind, of the spirit, that was more common, but that too felt muted. If Allard had been with him on the ship, would it have broken him, to see his boy die? Pain could be born. But the turning, the blackening of a man's spirit, that was worse. To lose sight of what you were and what you cared for, that was far less tolerable.

But no, that was wrong. He had never been a good man. Not in Flea Bottom where he'd first learned to fight and spit, not on the seas as a smuggler, and certainly not as the King's Rat. Better than some, he might allow, but no more. He had not been blackened. He had been born black, and whatever semblance of decency he had once possessed had been lost somewhere in the tunnels under the Keep. He was a liar now, a killer, and one who ordered killings, even the killings of children. Damn the spider and his little birds.

How long he sat here in the cold damp, like a babe waiting to be born, he could not say. Days, surely. They had brought the cold slop to him a dozen times or more, and he felt the growth of his beard on his face. Euron at least had not revisited him, but even that might have been relief. He had been a fool to think the silence of a ship's hold as anything like relief.

Floorboards creaked above him as a man descended the stairs. Finally. The dim glow of a candle appeared at the portal to the hold, and a large heavyset man entered. The man cut a ridiculous figure, with bright gold-trimmed robes of orange and red. The man was round all over, with a pale fat face, a shaved head, and great rolls of fat hanging over his belt.

"I am terribly sorry, Lord Seaworth," the man stated in a soft and quiet tone. "I am happy to see that they did not mar you more than they did. These Ironborn are truly savage in their ministrations."

"A jagged knife will do the job, if it's all you have to hand," Davos managed, his voice hoarse and dry. "I am pleased to finally meet you, Lord Varys." He paused, his soggy wits gathering. "I mean, I am pleased to know what your face looks like."

A broad smiled dawned on the Spider's face. "Quite correct, Lord Seaworth. This is not the first time we have met, merely the first time you see me, as I am now. You are as clever to realize as much."

"Not clever enough to catch you." He'd known that Varys had been hiding in the capital since Aegon had disappeared. Both their networks were centered there. But Varys' men were wary and moved in different circles than Davos'. Davos searched the face for some feature, some trait that would give away who he had disguised himself as in the keep. But therein lay the problem. The man's face was pallid and round, his head smooth and shaven. He could grow his hair, or his beard, and be scarcely recognizable. There was no lack of fat men in the Red Keep, and Varys might have been any of them.

"You should not deprecate yourself so," Varys insisted. "You are new to this black business, and your young king has given you so many threats to keep track of."

Davos did not reply. He did not have time for Varys' obsequities. The man was his blackest rival, and the greatest enemy of the realm, but for the moment Davos could do nothing to him and so he did not care. There were men flanking the Spider and Davos could not reach him in time, nor did he have the weapons to end him swiftly. He thought, instead, of Marya, and how sad her eyes had been when they had last parted.

"You are wondering, I think, why I have kept you alive?"

"Of course." But you're going to tell me, Davos thought, so why should I ask? The man clearly did not need him to be put to the question. He was well enough informed of Davos' comings and goings, and any knowledge that Davos held regarding the movements of ships and spears would be old and useless in any case.

"You are the King's left hand. It would do well to remove you from the board entirely. Indeed, I am sorry to say that one way or another you will be removed soon enough. But as valuable as you are dead, you are worth still more alive." the fat man stated simply. "I had no specific plan in arranging for you to be brought, but as it happens, an opportunity has presented itself. I need you to testify of all the wicked things that King Stannis made you do. Of how he had you forge false proofs of Cersei's infidelity, make a boudoir out of the chamber of the High Septon, and beguile his own Kingsguard with mummery."

"Is my word all you need?" Air wheezed out of Davos in what under other circumstances might have approximated a laugh. "The word of a Rat is worth little enough. Hardly seems worth the bother."

Varys did not meet his eyes. "Ah, but the word of a dying man is worth rather more, I think. Should you agree, I will give you light and food and exercise, so that when we come into Lannisport you will be clean and healthy. There, in the Golden Sept, in the sight of all the gods and thousands of prestigious people of the Westerlands, you will tell the truth of King Stannis' evils, and then having given this testimony, you will die for what you have done." Varys paused. "A clean stroke, they will make of it. One chop, and then whichever of the Seven Hells or Heavens you have earned."

"And if I refuse?"

"You will still die. The master of this ship had some ideas on the matter. I did not ask, but I plan on leaving things in his hands."

Davos' lip curled. "My loyalty is worth more than that." He did not think him equal to holding out against Euron's torture forever, but he could at least ruin himself as a witness.

"Ah, but of course," Varys said with a smile, "We vermin have our pride as well, after all. But I have further incentive for you. You have not heard, I think, that Lord Lannister has caught your king on the wrong side of the Blackwater and taken King's Landing."

"Tywin's lost the war, then," Davos interrupted. "He can survive for a while holed up in the city, but every day the King's forces rally and the bastard prince has been sent far away." But Davos' heart was already racing to think of Marya.

"Yes, but that will matter little to you, I should think." Varys paused dramatically. "I understand that the boy's name is Devan."

Devan, Devan, that had been the name they had spoken of, in hushed tones by the fire as they sat and thought of the future. Devan, it was to be, or Marya, if the Seven gave them a girl. Varys did not need to speak the threat. That Tywin was capable of dashing the babe's head against the stones out of sheer spite, he did not doubt. A newborn dead, and his wife soon to follow. And who am I, Davos thought, that Tywin should balk at breaking all I love?

He slumped in his chains, defeated. "Varys," he said, nearly sobbing. He did not need to force the tears. They came freely, from years of pain and seclusion and darkness. "Varys, we have not spoken before this, but I think of you so often I feel that you are an old friend of mine. Or an old enemy, at least."

"Not incorrect," Varys allowed. "You may not believe it, ser, but I hold you in the highest of respect. You put the good of the realm before all else. Like so many other poor misled souls, you are a good man serving a bad king."

"As if your Lord is better?" Davos nearly spat, his point forgotten. "Stannis gives his all for the good of the realm."

"Stannis is not a bad king for want of effort," Varys allowed. "But he strives against his own nature. Rule does not suit him. While he tries to fix the problems he creates, the realm cracks under the weight of his rule. Your king cannot build. He can only break, again and again."

And most of his troubles are your fault, Davos wanted to say but did not. "Stannis may be a flawed man, but your Tywin is a beast," Davos pressed.

Varys hummed in contemplation. "A jagged knife serves if it is all that comes to hand."

"Aegon, then," Davos stated. "The boy you killed. You mean to raise a false Aegon up as a puppet?"

Now Varys' smirk widened, covering his whole face. "That idea of yours has always been my favorite. Ah, Lord Seaworth. So clever and so inexperienced."

Davos said nothing, his eyes boring into Varys' fat face. For all his perfume and sighs and smiles, this man was a murderer, a killer of children and a fiend. Varys met this anger with a sad shake of his head. "Ah, I should not take amusement at your woe. I am sorry. But your idea that I had killed the child is false. You could not find me, and so you concluded that the child was dead. But you underestimated me, I fear. Aegon will grow, away from Tywin's eyes and ."

Davos broke gaze with him, allowing doubt to cloud over his features. He thought of Marya again, and the babe and his eyes ached, dry and tearless. "If I do this thing… you will see to it that they are not harmed?"

"Your boys who are at war I cannot vouch for. But Daven and Marya and Matthos? Yes, if you go through with this, I will protect them as far as I can. I will not insult you with oaths and protestations. We both know that if a man's word cannot be trusted, his oath is little better."

Davos said nothing in reply, wondering what his oath was worth these days. "I will do it," he said, his voice little louder than a whisper. "I'll give you your testimony."


	29. Chapter 27: Hear Me Roar

After weeks of hard marching, the banner bearing the Lion of Lannister finally came into view. The infantry behind Kevan Lannister gave a great hurrah, happy that their quick march was finally done. Kevan's heart soared too, to see the House Sigil flying so free. It was easy to forget the trouble that beset them when the mood in the camp seemed so cheerful.

Ten thousand cavalry were gathered on the hill before him, with another twenty thousand Westerman behind him. The full might of the Westerlands, or at least, as near as could be gathered. And yet not nearly as much as was wanted.

"Prepare to make camp!" Kevan shouted. Various of his lords rode away to see it done, freeing Kevan from the role of leadership for the nonce. Word of his approach had certainly reached Tywin's ears by now, and he was expected. After a few more words with his men, Kevan broke from the host and rode into Tywin's camp. Things were well in order, here. His eyes naturally sought for flaws in the arrangement of the men but could find none. The mercenaries had been kept separate from the regulars. The traveling Sept had been set up on a small hill in the middle of the camp that all the men could access easily. A place for everything and for everything a place.

Tywin had sent a man to lead him in, but he knew the way regardless. His brother always arranged these camps in the same fashion. Finally reaching the tent itself, he dismounted and walked inside.

The light was lower, here in the tent, and warm, with great furs draped over every surface. A long table had been set up for Tywin's special use, though Seven only knew how they'd transported the thing in their lightning-fast ride across the Gold Road. Tywin bent over the thing with a dozen of his lords, words exchanging between them quietly.

A page stepped forward. "Lord Kevan, Marshal of the Westerlands and brother to Lord Lannister."

Kevan did not wait to be acknowledged but made long strides forward. "Glad to have you with us," Tywin stated firmly.

"A long and quick march, but not one where we met much resistance," Kevan stated, a hint of irony entering his voice. They would soon have more resistance than they knew what to do with. "Spirits in the camp seem high."

That earned a grim laugh from the assembled lords. Tywin did not seem to find the idea humorous. "Stannis is coming down from the God's Eye with near fifty thousands. Another fifteen thousand are gathered across the Northern Fork, should we try to test them," his pronouncement was made with a face like stone. "The men have high spirits because they have not yet fought a proper enemy. This army of the King's will be like a murderstroke."

Kevan's throat went dry. For Tywin's temper to be this foul, the situation must be dire indeed. Still… "His numbers are smaller than expected, then. Not enough to force us to give battle, I think. We can move south, and if he pursues us it will be over land we have stripped bare."

Several of the lords shifted uneasily, and Kevan regretted his words. Perhaps many of them had had similar ideas but had been too afraid to voice them. One of them, an older cousin of theirs named Tylan, gave a slight cough. "He is correct, Lord Lannister. Dorne and the Reach do not move against us, and the North and the Vale have yet to fully rally. If Stannis wants to force a battle, he'll have to divide his army, and then our odds do not look nearly so weak."

"He will have men enough," Tywin added dourly. "He'll double his numbers before the year is out, and if we retreat into the south Mace will be forced to take up arms against us."

The tension in the room remained despite Tywin's statement. Tywin was still planning on winning the war outright, Kevan realized, when most of the Lords had given up on that goal after Stannis had emptied the capital. The lords did not even hope to win outright, but to cause enough havoc that a settlement might be reached. Tywin though, would not settle. Kevan breathed in deeply. He did not agree with his brother's stubbornness here, but they must present themselves to the lords as one.

"Ah," Kevan said, shaking his head. "You have the right of it, brother. We can't risk Mace coming against us directly or else we'll be completely overmanned. Besides, we might easily be trapped in the hills to the south. Those lands are well-fortified."

In the hours of discussion that followed, this pattern was repeated half a hundred times. Some lord would propose a plan, and Tywin would pick it apart. Kevan aided his brother here, sometimes helping him pick a plan apart, sometimes anticipating a possible plan and raising it himself in such a way that Tywin could deny it. The afternoon stretched on and Tywin called for a break for refreshment and food.

"You have a plan," Kevan said, simply, when the other lords had left and Cersei had joined them.

Tywin's lip curled as he sipped his wine. "Because I do not agree with any of their plans? One man says to attack, another calls for a retreat, but their plans are born of fear rather than sound judgment."

Cersei, reclining on a cushion not far away shook her head. "I should not call aggression a form of cowardice. And really, I think it must be the right idea. Men have rallied to Stannis, but they love him not. If we can but bloody his nose and show him to be weak, men will abandon him by the thousands."

Tywin did not answer, preferring to drink his wine. Kevan sighed and turned to her. "Bloodying his nose is the problem, niece. Your husband is many things, but weak is not one of them." A thought occurred to Kevan and caused him to frown suddenly. "Though he is less well-prepared than I had expected."

"You noticed that too?" Tywin commented.

"What do you mean?" Cersei asked, her eyes suddenly grown wary.

Kevan set down his goblet and leaned toward Cersei, his face serious. "As we told you when you were betrothed to the King, we have never trusted Stannis completely. He's too unyielding and inflexible to be completely reliable as an ally. So we sent agents, Lannister men not wearing Lannister colors, to watch his actions in the capital."

Cersei nodded along, clearly unsurprised by the news. Kevan continued. "Several months ago, one of them reported that the King was having an affair with Lyanna Stark and that he meant to put you away on the pretext of a mummer's farce. We've been preparing for him to make a move like this since then."

Cersei's mouth was now drawn into a very thin line. "And you told me none of this?"

"We could not tell you anything without exposing our knowledge to the King," Kevan admitted, "And they were too careful to catch in the act. Gerion went to the capital with this express purpose, but he was not able to out it. The King's eyes followed Lady Lyanna everywhere in the room, and Gerion felt certain that the rumors were true, but he could not detect their meeting place. He could offer no better explanation than that they used the secret passages in the keep for their trysts."

"If you had told me, I might have simply sent her away," Cersei replied hotly, her face now red with anger.

"Accomplishing nothing except letting the King know that we were aware of his adultery," Tywin interjected with some force. "With him ignorant, we were able to do much more. You do not even know the first of the work that's been done in an effort to answer the insult the King has paid us."

Kevan nodded quietly to himself. They had made alliances with Frey and Florent and Greyjoy so that the rest of the realm might be stalled and slowed in their response. They had arranged for the cavalry to be able to rally quickly for an assault down the Gold Road. They had even made an attempt to fill the Red Keep with knights loyal to them. It had been a foul business, from start to finish, but the King had left them with few options.

"Perhaps I would know more of your many labors," Cersei waspishly told her father, "if any of them had actually borne fruit."

Tywin responded by taking a slow sip from his goblet.

Kevan cleared his throat. "Stannis' farce has proved more airtight than we expected. He was somehow able to get Selmy and other men of repute to sign off on his lies, and his guards were loyal and watchful. He has answered every scheme of ours with careful efficiency. It is for this reason that we say you should not underestimate him."

"What surprises us," Kevan continued, "Is that he did not appear to anticipate that we might rebel. We expected that he would call together a tourney or something similar before denouncing you, that he might have a great host of knights at the ready to answer us. But he did not do this, which means that he must have expected us to take this insult meekly." Kevan nearly laughed at the idea. Tywin Lannister, taking insult from a king that was little older than a boy? And this was no mere insult, either, but a threat of death against Tywin's own daughter.

"I have a different theory," Cersei stated. "The King is unloved, and the men you see with him now are the only men that will rally to him. Defeat him once, and his support will fold like so much paper."

Tywin set down his cup again. "You see what I mean, Kevan? Fear makes some prefer to attack, and others prefer to retreat."

"I'm not afraid of Stannis!" Cersei hissed, pronouncing the king's name like a curse. "I'm saying we must attack."

Kevan sighed again. "A man might do anything when he's afraid, Niece. He might run, beg, or fight to the death. Retreating when the time is right does not make a man a craven any more than dying on the battlefield makes a man valiant. A coward and a courageous man might both do the same thing, but the coward does it because his fear has made him rash. All things have their time, and the time to attack is not now."

Tywin sat up straight and folded his hands, his eyes closed. "Well stated, brother. There is a time for everything. Retreating, fighting, and begging for mercy all have their place."

Kevan arched an eyebrow. "Surely you do not mean to surrender?" He restrained himself from glancing at his niece. The girl would die if they made peace. Absently, Kevan wondered if that was Tywin had kept her in the camp. Was she merely here to be traded away?

"No," Tywin said. "I will not suffer us to be used in this way. Never again."

Kevan held his breath. Surrender had been a dirty word in the meeting earlier. Always on everyone's lips but never uttered. But Tywin would never surrender, and everyone knew that. His brother was too proud for that. It was one of the reasons that Kevan loved him, but now he wanted to grab his older brother by the shoulders and shake him, force him to consider what it was he was doing. Instead, he simply said, "You know that I will follow you into the seven hells themselves, brother. But not all our bannermen are so loyal. There is a time for everything, as you said."

"Begging," Tywin said, coldly. "Aye, I may beg, yet. And retreat, too. But I will not surrender. I will not lose. The King has set himself as our enemy, and there is only one fate I will tolerate for such a man." He paused, a cold light coming into his eyes. "No, I am not finished yet."

Stannis rode forward, his teeth hard and on edge. He had hardly slept the night before and his mind was swimming with rage and confusion.

They had trapped the Lannisters now. After weeks and weeks of merry chases, the Lannister host had finally been forced to make a stand on a long low hill on the banks of the Blackwater. Wiklyn Hob, they called the place, and it was easy to see why Tywin had chosen it for his last stand. The ground was rocky and uneven, and Tywin's host had been fortifying it for a week or more. Breastworks and pits dotted the hillside, with lines of catapults and scorpions higher up. Tywin meant for them to pay for dearly for victory.

Blood and ruin, Stannis thought. Why should so many die for Tywin's pride? Some men in the camp were excited for the battle. Fools. Peace would have been better than this madness. Stannis knew war well enough to hate it. When he had fought in the siege he had seen men he knew better than his own brothers hacked apart by swords. He had seen Reachmen fall hundreds of feet from the walls of Storm's End, shattering like overripe grapes on the rocks below. There would be bloodshed again today, a hundredfold from what he had seen at Storm's End, on his orders no less.

But he would do it. He would do it again. The Crown demanded it from him, and he would personally kill every last man in Tywin's camp if it was required. Damn Tywin and his daughter to all Seven of the Hells for bringing him to this. Why would Tywin not yield? Why should Cersei force him to kill her like this? The image of her golden head rolling appeared before him and his insides churned. Why? Why? Why? The question repeated over and over again, hammering away in his brain. She was vicious, evil, and vain, he knew, but still, she must have known. She must have known what her wantonness would bring. He clenched his fist and cursed himself. No, her head would roll. However loathe the sight was to him, he would do it.

His own weakness surprised him. Why should he be so disgusted at the thought of killing her? He had always hated her, with her smirks and seductions and shallow bids for power. His lady wife was a vile creature, personifying everything he hated about life at court. Even when he had lain with her he had despised her, and she him. He would be happy to have her gone, he reminded himself.

They came at last to the place of meeting. Tywin rode toward them, his face ashen and his glimmering golden plate in a state of disrepair. The Lords and Knights with him were similarly arrayed. This campaign had been hard on the old man, Stannis realized. He must have pushed himself to save his daughter. For a moment something like admiration for Tywin dawned in him, but he crushed it. Lord Lannister was an enemy of the realm.

"You will surrender now or I will destroy you," Stannis stated loudly, not waiting for introductions. "I have twice your men, and your backs are to the river. I've another fifteen thousand crossing the Northern Fork even now, and I can afford to wait for them. You've arrayed some impressive defenses, but you'll be starving behind them in a week's time. How long do you think you can hold your position?"

"Long enough," Tywin replied haughtily, "Unlike yours, my men are loyal, and our position is strong. Can you say the same? How long do you think you can hold your siege, when every day more of the realm turns against you?"

"The realm turns against you," Stannis stated flatly. "You're the only one in the realm fool enough to trust in your whorish daughter's virtue. No one is coming to save you. Ready yourself for a siege," he said, turning his horse and leaving. He had no intentions of waiting them out, but it cost him nothing to make Tywin think that. He would charge at them by the first available light the next day.

His head throbbed with anger and pain as he rode back. Was Tywin so great a fool to believe Cersei and his pet Septon, or did he know the truth? It must be the latter, for if he had not known the truth how could he have had an army so ready at hand to answer them? Stannis snarled. Treason and regicide. Tywin Lannister would not be taken alive, he resolved.

That night they received scores of defectors from the Lannister camp. Stannis did not know how many precisely, but to hear the men talk it was hundreds. Tywin's talk of loyal men had been nothing more than talk. The enemy army was read to splinter at first provocation, his men said, eyes alight with hope of an easy victory. Stannis was not so sure. Every army had its cravens. Though perhaps the Lannister army had more than most, with Tywin recruiting sellswords and untested pot boys of Lannisport to bolster his numbers.

Stannis passed a traveling sept on his way to his tent at night. Half the knights were gathered in a great open field outside the sept, receiving the blessing of the Warrior as they knelt and held vigil. No doubt on Wiklyn Hob there were scores of knights in vigil as well. Who would the gods bless? Stannis snorted. Neither of them. The Stranger was the only one who could be depended to give his boon. Men should pray more to him.

He saw a young man, nervous and fresh, take up in the rear near the others, and begin praying fervently, his whole body shaking with exertion. That one is not ready to die yet, Stannis thought. But then, was anyone truly ready to die? The only ones who did not fear death were those who knew little of it. Some would see the man's shaking and crying as weakness. Stannis saw only wisdom. As Stannis watched, a Septon came near and touched the man's shoulders, speaking words of comfort to him. Gradually the boy's shakings grew faint, and soon he ceased moving entirely.

Stannis' head ached. The Faith did not stop death, did not make you invincible. All the knights that you fought would be just as blessed by the Seven, and likely just as worthy. The peace the boy felt inside was a lie. But still… the boy's shaking had stopped. He looked at his own lined hand and tried to hold it still, but it wavered even as he looked at it.

I need to sleep, he thought. Rest is a better balm than any Septon's mutterings. But still, the idea of going to join the knights taunted him. It would be good for the knights to see their king in prayer, Arryn would have said. It would be good for them to see their King acting like a man of Faith...

No, he had no stomach for a show tonight. But still, he slipped off his horse, walking to the rear of the host and kneeling down next to the young knight who had been shaking so. He mumbled a prayer to the Father, the words dredging themselves up from his boyhood.

"Father," he said quietly, "Judge my heart true and forgive my failures." Failures. He had had enough of those. This rebellion was as much his work as Cersei's, for he had enabled it. He had broken the realm, made it impossible for men to trust him. Had he driven Cersei to what she did, too? Had he been so poor a husband?

"Guide me to choose rightly. Fill me with wisdom." Wisdom. Yes, the trait of kings, or so they always said. He had little enough of it, but perhaps the gods were feeling generous for a change.

"Help me be a beacon of truth to others," he said, finishing the first chant. He repeated it again, the words coming more quickly and easier this time. The prayers were to be said seven times, and the words came easily now. He knew that some of the devout would do a set of prayers for each of the Seven every morning, but he did not know why. The words lost all meaning for him by the fourth repetition. By the sixth repetition, he realized that the young knight was watching him, and he stopped abruptly partway through the repetition. He stood, turning to the man who watched him, mouth open.

"Y-your Grace!" The shaking knight stated with surprise.

"Aye," Stannis replied flatly. "And who are you?"

"Ser Anthony Thicktree, Your Grace," the young man managed, "I'm a knight in service to Ser Jon Morland, Your Grace."

Stannis had no idea who Jon Morland was, but clearly, the young knight thought him a man of significance. "You are worried about battle tomorrow," Stannis stated, in a tone that made it clear he was not asking.

"Y-yes, your grace." The man said, looking down. "I am not as brave as I ought to be, I know. I..." his voice trailed off awkwardly.

"Spit it out. What are you afraid of?"

"Not of death," the knight paused, "Not really, your grace. But..." He struggled again. "There's a woman, back in Morland, and I married her just before leaving, but if I should die here, She'd be left with nothing. I made prayer to the Mother… only I was not sure if I should pray to her, or the Maiden."

"Pray to the Warrior, and take care not to die," Stannis stated, moving past the young man to his horse.

He slept well, that night, for the first time in many years.

Dawn saw Stannis' host surrounding the hill, the sun just starting to rise in the East over Stannis' left flank. Steel glinted red in the morning sun, as though already bloodied by war. The day promised to be fair, Stannis noted absently. A good day for hawking, perhaps. A good day to stand on the battlements of Storm's End and feel the wind on your face. A good day to kill a Lord of the Realm.

"The men await your command," Brynden Tully said to him, the white knight's armor colored like blood.

Stannis paused a moment. "Sound it," he growled, as though pronouncing a curse.

Brynden Tully drew a great horn from his side and blew loud and true, the note ringing and rebounding from a thousand other horns throughout the camp. The wind tuned the horns to a strange ringing harmony, as though some great beast were calling aloud to welcome the dawn. Stannis sat astride his horse, like a rock in a stream and a tide of humanity surged forward, marching in rhythm like the drum of a great giant.

Alarum broke loose in the camp of the Lannisters, as defenders scrambled about Wiklyn Hob like so many distant ants. Stannis tried to judge if they seemed prepared for the attack or not, but from this distance he could discern little. His reputation, perhaps, would have made men think him too craven to attempt a direct assault. He had several times argued loudly with his commanders over the issue of commanding from the rear as opposed to the front, and for this some had labeled him a cold-hearted craven. Perhaps he was. But if leading from the rear was cowardice, then some men had a duty to be cravens, for there was no coordinating a battle when you were in the lead. Some men must pick up the pieces when the brave men die in the first charge.

He moved his horse forward at a slow trot. The infantry came up to the base of the great hill, only half a mile from the Lannister fortifications. They would be in range of the catapults soon, and Stannis could see the shapes of men clambering about them in preparation.

But before any catapults could be fired, the cry of a horn went up, and a great host of Lannister cavalry spewed forth from the side of the Lannister fortifications. Thousands of men and horses charge down the hill, glowing red in the morning sun. They moved at a furious pace, striking hard towards the flank. The infantry turned to face the charge, and cries of "Hold!" went up.

When knights charged, the front lines always died. This was an incontrovertible fact of warfare in Westeros, and the infantry knew this. Every one of their instincts would be telling them to run, but running would not save them. Flee or fight, they would die. But if they held, if they held...

Horses and men crashed into one another in a cacophony of screams. Steel raking against flesh, spears skewering horses, lances burying themselves in the flesh of men. The men had held, but for how long? The knights abandoned their lances and began to set about themselves with hammers and axes, dealing death at every turn, pushing, pressing, bending the enemy line. "Hold!" more men screamed, and Stannis grit his teeth.

The line held. The force of their charge broken, the cavalry retreated in disorder. Stannis saw now that many of them were free riders and hedge knights. A great cheer went up from the men, and the infantry moved to pursue them, some of the front line running as fast as they could. Eager for treasure, weapons, and hostages to be ransomed, their formation broke open wide, greed doing what a charge of pressed cavalry could not.

Stannis' jaw flexed. Fools! They could not allow themselves to be spread out like that! "Brynden!" He yelled. "Get down there and establish order!" The Blackfish was already moving, charging down to bring the ranks into order. But even as he went, a second horn call went up from the camp of the Lannisters, and the ranks of defenders parted to reveal a second wave of cavalry. These, Stannis saw, were the true threat. The personal knights of the great houses of the Westerlands, better trained and equipped than the cavalry that came down before.

The infantry that had run to the front to chase after their enemies were cut down like wheat before a scythe. Stannis could seem Brynden there, carving a bloody path about him as he struggled to force a knot of men to hold against the onslaught. The defenders of the hill now poured forward en masse, moving as one man, with shields and helms. Arrows were exchanged, flying between ranks, picking off men as they advanced.

The charge of the infantry caught his men completely off-guard. The left hand held, with the superior numbers allowing them to even push back the enemy in places, despite their disorder and the unfavorable terrain. In the center, the Royals were floundering, surprised by the sudden show of force and unable to bring greater numbers to bear.

The right, though, where the Lannister cavalry had struck, was folding, and folding quickly. Stannis' own cavalry had moved to support them but had run afoul of the advancing infantry. Even so, the greater numbers of the Royal host should have allowed his men to outflank the enemy, but without any coherent formation, the men were trapped, paralyzed by fear like a rabbit in a snare. Royal men from the Riverlands and Vale were dying every minute, as Westerlander steel parted flesh and rent bone. Stannis searched for the Blackfish, but no sign of him appeared.

A curse escaped his lips.

He snatched up the horn that would sound retreat. The Lannisters could not pursue them away from the hill. His army had been bloodied, but they still had two troops for each one of the Lannisters, and they could assault again in just a few hours. It was the right decision, he felt confident of that. He put the horn up to his lips, and then… he paused.

"No," he said, handing the horn back to his attendant. He took up a great long lance and turned to the Kingsguard who were still with him. Greenfield and Selmy and Santagar. All good swords. "With me," he stated coldly, and he rode forward.

He was sick to death of caution. Sick of reacting. Sick of being patient. They could win this fight yet. Tywin's men were exposed, pulled out from their fortifications. They could win it still, if the men on the right flank could simply rally themselves. He could destroy Tywin in a single rush. This rebellion had gone on too long already.

"The King, the King! Make way! Make way!"

He broke free of the ranks of his own men, and spurred his horse into a canter, eating up the ground between him and his own cavalry, which was pulling back from the fighting for a moment in an attempt to rally themselves. From their midst, Stannis espied Lord Bryce Caron of Nightsong, who had been given charge of the cavalry. The man's armor was streaked with blood and dirt, and his handsome face was ashen with sweat and exertion.

"My king!" Lord Bryce exclaimed, surprise writ large on his features.

"With me!" Stannis shouted, and rode on. The Knights fell in behind him, thousands of steel-plated men curving around behind him as though he were the eye of a great basilisk turning toward the Lannister host. Knights outpaced him and rode ahead, eager to form a wall between him and the Lannisters.

"With the King!" They cried. "Defend the King!"

The enemy cavalry rode out to meet them, intent on guarding the Lannister flank. Something inside Stannis broke, and he felt a roaring feral scream tear loose from him. The charge surged around him and slammed into the Lannister cavalry in a great surge of bodies. There was no time to think. Elbows and armor and horses and swords were all about him now. He heaved into his lance, pushing a knight of Crakehall from his horse. His lance cracked and he drew his mace, blocking an overhead swing from a man in armor. Selmy gave the man an estoc between his ribs and he dropped from the saddle like a sack of flour.

An infinite moment passed, full of screams and death, and then the enemy cavalry was retreating, Stannis' horse charging after them with thunderous fury.

"WITH ME!" Stannis yelled, and a thousand voices answered him. He turned the host toward the Lannister flank, where Westerman hacked apart his army piecemeal. Another scream tore loose from Stannis as they collided, the infantry breaking before the royal charge like so much chaff in the wind. They had been too busy with their work of slaughter, completely unprepared for the onslaught of thousands of elite knights in full armor.

Compared with the chaotic, desperate combat against the Lannister horse, what followed was a grim chore. The enemy was not in formation, was not prepared, and they were trampled left and right. Boys from Lannisport, long-haired men from Fair Isle, all crushed beneath mace and hoof and press of bodies. All along the Baratheon line, men cheered and rallied, redoubling their efforts and forming up.

Stannis pulled the cavalry away after a moment. The Lannister infantry was retreating! He gave three sharp blasts from his horn, and his host gave out a cheer and charged forward. Men died in droves as they were run down from behind, or picked off by arrows firing into their backs.

The Lannister reserves replied to this with arrows and missiles. Their catapults and their scorpions went to work now, raining death amidst Stannis' host. But what were sticks and stones to such a tide of humanity? The press of bodies swarmed the hastily-made fortifications, pushing them over and trampling them with sheer force of mass.

Through it all, Stannis pressed on. He did not know how many he killed, how many times he charged back into the fray. He had lost Santagar at some point, and Greenfield's movements were sluggish. Stannis' mind whirled at each engagement, barely coherent. Then he saw him. Lord Lannister himself. Tywin, in his golden armor. Gone was the dusty, unpolished wreck he had worn yesterday. Now the Lord of the Westerlands looked half a god, shining down from astride a great grey steed. He led a small knot of elite knights straight toward Stannis' party, and cries went up from the Lannister men all around.

"A Lion, a Lion! A Lion of Lannister!" they cried as the golden knight swept by them.

"Fool," Stannis said, and charged to meet him, this time allowing his Kingsguard to outpace him. This was clearly some attempt by Tywin at luring him out from his guard and killing him in a death-seeking rush

But Stannis did not have to do anything. Selmy tore through the enemy knights as though they were made of paper. He ducked one lance, rammed his estoc through a visor, and then crushed a man's visor with his own mailed fist. Tywin matched him for a moment, with a speed belying his age, but then Selmy unhorsed him as well as the others.

The golden lord fell to the earth in a heap, and Stannis finally allowed himself pause. All around him, the Lannister forces were surrendering, throwing down their swords and spears and marching away. Stannis rode near to where Tywin lay, gasping for breath. Selmy dismounted and pulled the helmet off him.

Stannis cursed. "Lord Kevan," he said, and the name was like ash in his mouth.

Lord Kevan Lannister smiled weakly from where he lay on the ground. A brave man, Stannis thought, to wear the armor of his brother. Kevan moved as to speak, but the wind had gone out of him. Stannis turned from him with a curse. Where could Tywin have gone? Had he slipped in amongst the camp followers? Had he forded the River in secret?

"Find Tywin Lannister, find Cersei," Stannis growled, walking out through the camp. "Get Lord Kevan a Maester!" This war wasn't over until Tywin was dead. Even with his army destroyed and gone, the Old Lion still had friends in the kingdom. Cersei turned up soon enough. Stannis avoided her. He would torture himself enough at her trial. Duty required no more from him now.

He wandered the camp for something like an hour, checking with knights and lords and sellsword captains, anxious to find what had befallen Lord Lannister. Finally, Brynden Tully came to Stannis. The Blackfish's white cloak had been stained red with blood, and though uninjured, his face told the tale of hours of hard work.

"I found the body," Brynden said quietly. He did not have to say whose.

Tywin Lannister had been gutted outside his tent, carrying a load of papers. Stannis wondered what his plan had been, in those last moments. The papers had been ruined by the rain. Had he meant to send out a mass of letters? Empty the rookery?

What Stannis felt then was weariness. Weariness from a long day of hard fighting and a month of troubles. It rocked him like an ocean current, and he moved into one of the Lannister tents and laid down upon the cushions and went to sleep.  
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	30. Chapter 28: Blood in the Water

Light, meat, and a soft hammock. His compliance had bought him this much, along with the safety of his wife and son, but no more. Manacles with short chains still bound his wrists to the hull, and the food had done nothing except make him sick. The light was dim and fitful, coming from a great black iron lantern that smoked terribly. Still he was grateful for what he had. At least he no longer lacked human companionship as much as he once had.

It was not long before he wished for solitude again.

"I feel," the Spider noted softly, as he sat in his chair near the hammock. "As if you are something of a rarity. Someone I can be totally frank with, who may understand me. So often I spend time in the courts of these great lords, and though they rely on we vermin, they disdain us too. It is hard to work with them."

Davos snorted. "You mean, then, that I can understand you because we are both blackguards?" He had resisted speaking with the Spider at first, but isolation drove a man to do what he otherwise would not.

The Spider's eyes glittered. "No, Lord Seaworth. We act as blackguards, yes, but in pursuit of greater purposes. Or do you think that I am no different from Euron?"

"I am different from you," Davos insisted. "I serve someone."

"I serve something. Can a man not pledge loyalty to a purpose as easily as to a person? Is that not better? Men are imperfect, flawed creatures. They die and twist and change. Ideals do not."

Now Davos was silent. This talk did not suit him. He could not coat the black bile of his hatred with sweet words. Varys and his birds were the heart of the darkness in the realm, the thing that forced him to play the part of the villain and the blackguard. He could die happily, so long as Varys died as well. He would damn his own soul to see Varys' damned along with it. If only the man sat a little closer… but no. Retribution would have to wait.

They were still a few days from Lannisport, Davos guessed. The time he had spent in darkness had been long and indeterminate, but even deep as he was in the ship's belly, he still overheard much. If he struck now, he might be able to overpower the Spider, but there was a chance that the eunuch would escape, and Davos would not sell his life for nothing. Not yet. He would have better opportunity to kill the Spider than this, so long as the man kept visiting. He had to keep him talking.

"You claim to pledge loyalty, yet who heard you do so? Who would believe you if they had?" Davos said, forcing himself to reply. "What does it mean, to swear an oath into the darkness, when every other oath you swear is a lie?"

"I lie to many people, Lord Seaworth, but I could never lie to myself. I am too shrewd a judge of character to believe lies, even ones told by a master such as myself. The witness of the oath was myself, and I know that I will keep it."

"A convenient notion."

Varys made no reply, and Davos forced himself to speak again. "I wonder that Tywin trusted you. He knew you. He should have known better."

Varys leaned forward, now just out of reach. Davos' short fingers ached. "Trust, Lord Seaworth, is a funny thing. Earning it by dutiful service is but one of many paths. One that is too slow for me, especially with these suspicious Lannisters. Easier to show the lions my neck, and let them think me afraid of them. There is no one more trustworthy than someone you could easily destroy."

"And this purpose you swore to?" Davos questioned. "What is it? Why aid a man like Tywin Lannister?"

The Spider simply smiled. "You ask many questions, Lord Seaworth. Answer one of mine: to whom did you send those ravens?"

A chill went up Davos' spine. Ravens had followed him everywhere as Master of Whispers, along with a scribe to write and read for him. In the minutes before the Silence overtook them, every one of the ravens had been released, bearing messages to holdings all across Westeros. Some of them would have been received by now, he did not doubt. Others would never arrive. He had not thought that Varys knew of them.

"I don't remember all what ravens I had at the time. King's Landing, Storm's End, Harenhall, and Oldtown, I think. Though I was far enough from land that I guess not all of them went aright." There had been one more, and though he doubted it mattered, he spoke of it not. "I had little time, just enough for the scribe to leave notice of my capture… or my death." Davos laughed coldly. "I should be very surprised if anyone will be able to read the scribe's hand. He wrote very ill, for his hands shook with fear." Fear that had been justified. He had died with an ax between his eyes not half an hour later. Davos' mind felt the weight of his death, along with so many others.

Varys seemed satisfied with this answer and moved to speak, but a call from the ship's deck interrupted him. "They're coming up alongside!" the voice called, and Varys stood and abruptly left Davos alone in the hold.

Davos' mind whirled. A ship was coming up alongside the Silence? It must be another Ironborn vessel, or perhaps a galley. But this could not be something fore-ordained, else Varys would have expected it. Something like hope fluttered in Davos' chest. That last raven he had sent, the one he had kept secret from Varys, it might have found its way home.

Chatter from above deck reached him, as unintelligible as the crashing of the sea. Men were talking, then yelling, then suddenly a chorus of screams tore out, and the sound of clashing steel. Yes, Davos, thought, this was his chance.

They kept no guards in the hold with him. There was no point. He was manacled hand and foot to the poles that supported his hammock, and besides, he had been complacent and pliable during the whole of his captivity. Mummery. The manacles were not locked. Davos had undone the locks himself with a skeleton key he had swallowed just prior to his capture. His only idea had been to catch the Spider in a surprise lunge and strangle him, now a greater opportunity had presented itself. He stood, shrugging the chains off with but a little effort. His legs had not supported his weight in days and he nearly stumbled as the ship rocked. A hiss escaped his teeth as his legs regained their sensation.

He heard feet running above and guessed quickly enough what they signified. Varys had sent someone to kill him. Davos immediately he fit himself between two great water casks on the edge of the lantern light, and within a moment, feet showed themselves on the ladder.

The man who had been sent to kill Davos was a big Ironborn brute, perhaps a hand shorter than the king, and armed and armored as well as any of the crew. Though heavy, the man's steps on the ladder were light, and Davos grit his teeth. This man knew how to kill. Underfed and ragged as he was, Davos would not last ten seconds against this one. He dropped to the floor lightly, turning to where Davos' hammock hung.

Davos struck, jumping onto the man's back and looping his arm around the man's neck. They crashed in a heap on the floor, the man struggling to break the death grip on his neck. Elbows crashed into Davos' ribcage like hammers, but he held fast, spreading his legs to brace against the man's attempts to roll free. He took six blows to the side, then seven. Then the blows began to weaken and finally, he felt the life slip out of the man. He held on a few moments more and then pushed the great brute off him, gasping for air.

Screams of steel and of dying men still filtered down from above deck. Davos cursed. He had to hurry. He grabbed the lantern from where it had set by his bedside and raced up the ladder, every one of his joints protesting against the weight of the lantern he carried. Could he remember how they had taken him down to the hold, so many days ago? First the deck of the oar-thralls, then the stairs that took him up to the crew's quarters and beyond, he thought. He raced through the ship, pushing past confused thralls and bewildered cabin boys.

The sun nearly blinded him for a moment as he ran out onto into the light of day, but when his eyesight recovered he found himself on a deck awash with blood. Men lay dead and dying in a circle around him, the fighting but a few feet from where Davos had emerged. Ironborn clashed against Ironborn in a bitter struggle. Davos saw Euron in the center of it, gutting a man with a laugh. Davos pulled his gaze away. Greyjoy didn't matter. Varys did.

Davos caught sight of him just as he was lowered over the side. He had gotten into one of the boats with a few men and a pair of cabin boys were lowering him down by winch.

Davos charged them. No one had seen him yet, and so no one stopped him as he ran across the deck. He breathed a prayer to the warrior as he moved. Varys must die if the realm was to have peace. Varys must die, or all else he had done was for naught. He rushed into the first of the boys, throwing him over the side in a great splash. The other one, a boy of scarcely fourteen, pulled a pair of knives from his belt and let out a yell. Davos swung his black iron lantern down in a great arc, crushing the boy's head in with a single stroke. Hot oil leaked from the lantern onto his unshod feet, burning him. Davos cursed through the pain and rushed to the side.

Varys's boat had already touched down into the sea, the men straining at the oars to pull away. The Spider saw him, then at the edge of the ship, and smiled, giving a mocking bow. They were getting away. The fighting on the deck was still ongoing. Even if his allies should prevail, the ship might easily make land by the time they could pursue, and Davos recognized the coastline of the Westerlands in the distance. This could not be borne.

Davos stepped a few feet back from the edge, the lantern heavy in his arm. Then, he threw himself forward, pushing the whole of his weight into his arm in a great heaving throw. He released the lantern at the last possible moment, letting the black iron monstrosity carve a smoking arc through the air.

It hit, crashing into the middle of the boat right between the oarsmen, hot oil spraying over them and catching fire in an instant. Screams and terror took hold as men jumped overboard to escape the flames. The Spider worked frantically trying to quell the flames with wet blankets, but the fires had spread too far and too fast.

A sudden gripping headache seized Davos and he fell to the deck clutching his own skull. Dimly, he saw a pair of fine boots walking towards him on the deck.

"Rat," a voice said smoothly. "Well played. Well played indeed." Davos lifted his head and saw the lithe form of Euron walking toward him, the man's steps swaying drunkenly on the deck. Davos desperately pushed himself backward trying to distance himself from the devil in human flesh. Greyjoy's arm whipped around and Davos felt stabbing pain fill his leg as a handaxe buried itself in his leg. "You are a great man, a fine man," Euron said, a singsong voice filling the air. "But you are a man. I will not suffer such blasphemy from one as you."

Davos could push himself backward no farther, and so he pulled his knees to his chest. Live like a Rat, dying like a rat. Euron stalked towards him, a long pale sword in his hand. Davos' hands numbly fumbled for the ax that had been buried in his leg.

A high laugh rang out clear and true. "Let it not be said that I killed an unarmed man!" He crowed, his black eye glittering in the sun. Euron stood over him now, and pulled back his sword for the killing thrust…

And then the head of an arrow sprouted from his right eye socket. Euron turned, a moment, seeming confused, and then collapsed on top of Davos and Davos knew no more.

When Davos finally regained consciousness, pain greeted him. He gasped aloud, every part of him burning red hot with pain. Pain, though, was an old friend, and one he knew well. Slowly, he forced himself to open his eyes. He lay abed with the rough hands of an Ironborn surgeon working around his leg. A card had been placed in his mouth at some point, and Davos was glad for it as a needle pulled through the wound on his leg. He screamed through clenched teeth as the needle pulled, and dark spots entered his vision.

"All done," the gruff voice of the surgeon said, and he moved away to some other dying man. They were still aboard the Silence, Davos saw. Davos said a prayer of thanks that he had been unconscious when the wound had been cauterized.

"You had better intend to live," a dry voice stated, interrupting his thoughts. Davos half-rolled over to catch sight of the speaker, pushing himself as far as he could before the pain made it impossible to move farther. The man was tall and spare, with a brown beard falling over his plain gray plated mail. "If you die, then this was all for nothing."

"Not for nothing," Davos choked out. "The Spider is dead, and Euron too." A trace of doubt flickered in his mind. He had not seen the Spider die.

"Aye," The man stated. "You have the right of it. We found their bodies. But if you'll pardon an uncouth Ironborn savage, I don't give a damn about them. It's you we need."

Davos swallowed. "You are… Theomore, correct?"

A cold smiled graced the man's lips. "Theomore is my older brother. I'm Erich, the second son. The Old Man was rather distressed by your letter. You should not trust such things to a raven."

"I had little enough choice. I am…" He paused. "Grateful to be saved, but it was unnecessary. The King knows of the deal your father struck. If you've kept to it, he will honor the arrangement."

"Yes, well," the man said looking to the side. "We have kept to the deal. We held our fleets back from the war, though it cost us dearly. Dear Uncle Balon threatened to kill us all when he returned. One of his more eager lords actually besieged Ten Towers, but we saw them off." Erich grimaced. "It's a black business, to turn on your own family, but we had told him many times that we would not support a rebellion. Aunt Alannys told him, too. We've dealt honestly with him, except for this venture. Had to fly a false flag, elsewise Euron would never have let us come close."

Davos collapsed back onto the bed. "The other Ironborn won't see it that way."

"Which is why we need you alive," Erich repeated. "You're the mastermind, Lord Rat. If you die, we will like as not end up with Mallister overseeing affairs." The man grimaced, and Davos silently agreed. "Don't die." The man said again and made to leave, but Davos grabbed the edge of his tabard.

"Erich," he said, his voice scarcely above a whisper. "Tell me, has King's Landing fallen?"

The man seemed confused. "No," he stated. "Tywin's army was trapped up by the Blackwater last I heard. They never even got into the Crownlands."

"Good," Davos said, releasing the man's tabard. "Good." And then, for the first time in months, Davos drifted off into dreamless sleep.


	31. Chapter 29: Scars of War

"I surrender," Balon sorrowfully admitted, bending to his knees and offering his crown to Stannis.

The Lannister fleet had joined with the Royal and Redwyne fleets after Young Lord Tyrion's surrender. Caught between Lion and Stag and Vine, the Iron Fleet had been shattered into a thousand pieces off the coast of Fair Isle. Tarly and Stark, eager to involve themselves in the action of the rebellion, had stormed Pyke and brought Greyjoy and all his family back to Casterly Rock in chains before Stannis ever had opportunity to sail from Lannisport. Stannis himself had not seen even a moment of the action against the Greyjoys.

Ravens, Stannis thought with a grimace. Ravens or crows. The carrion were always the ones who won in the end. But not this time.

They were assembled before Stannis in the hall of judgment in Casterly Rock. Balon, Victarion, Asha, and Theon. All that remained of House Greyjoy. Tarly, Tully, Mallister, Stark, and half a hundred other great houses had gathered to observe. Not least of these was Young Lord Lannister himself, sitting on a raised seat cushion just to Stannis' right.

The boy had offered terms of surrender nearly as soon as word had reached him of Tywin's death. His terms had been reasonable, acknowledging the truth of all Stannis' allegations and offering a score of his cousins as hostages. Castamere, Tarbeck Hall and half a dozen other Lordships had been given over to second sons of loyal Riverlords and Crownslanders, along with much treasure and hostages. The Old Lion had been broken on the shores of the Blackwater and the Young Lion seemed aware of that. Even so, Stannis would not have accepted the terms except that he was impatient to deal with Greyjoy.

Balon would be the first. "You are bold, Lord Greyjoy," Stannis stated, his voice sounding harsh to his own ears, "Your fleet is driftwood, your sons are dead and your armies scattered, and now you think to offer me terms? Lord Seaworth told you a year ago what the price of treason was, and that has not changed. Off with his head, Lord Stark. I tire of traitors."

Lord Greyjoy's eyes glittered, but he did not beg or whine. That much, Stannis could respect. He did not wince, either, when Lord Stark stepped forward and took his head from his shoulders in a single stroke. Young Lord Greyjoy, sitting just behind his father's cooling corpse, showed less composure. Huge, uncontrollable sobs escaped the boy, and Lord Lannister shifted awkwardly in response. Bile rose in Stannis' throat, but he was King, and he allowed no discomfort to rise to the surface. Men should know what came of sedition.

Young Lord Greyjoy pushed himself to the floor, trying to prostrate himself into the gaps between the tiles of the floor. "Mercy" being the only word decipherable amongst his gibbering pleas. Stannis could only scowl. Did men still think him a killer of children and women? Unbidden, the image of Cersei's head rolling across the floor came to his mind, and he bit his cheek. "Still yourself, Lord Greyjoy," he stated firmly. "You are Lord of Pyke now and bannerman to the house of your mother, the house to which your sister is betrothed. Serve them loyally and you have nothing to fear from me. I am not in the habit of executing families of my loyal subjects."

Victarion raised his head a little then, the great man's eyes full of anger and hate. There would be many in the Iron Islands who would look at him so. They would look at the Harlaws with even less favor. No man loved a betrayer of kin. Family should come before royalty. Stannis knew that better than most. But the Greyjoys had been given warning. They knew what the result of their action would be. The other houses of the Ironborn, from the Blacktydes to the Codds, had been warned as well.

Half a hundred other matters took their attention then, and Stannis did not have five minutes to himself until evening. He missed Jon Arryn's calm presence as a man might miss his right arm. But the Crown demanded he push on. Proud fools must be placated. Sedition must be met with promises and threats. Stannis weathered as many insults, lies, and schemes in an afternoon as he had all year. How had Arryn borne up under such a burden of words and smiles? Who could Stannis possibly expect to replace him?

"Enough," he said finally, "A victory demands a celebration, and Lord Lannister has prepared a feast for us. I am done with the realm for a day." A lie, Stannis thought. He was not yet done with the realm. Whether you were sitting on a throne, or feasting, or lying in your bed, the struggle never ceased, merely changing form like snow melting into water. He would be done with the realm when he drew his last breath and not a moment sooner.

Courtiers and guards attended him even now as he readied himself for the feast, and he called this a reprieve. He ate up the ground with long strides, as though he could put the Hall of Justice and its executions behind him.

"Your Grace," The word came from not far behind him, and Stannis felt a small smile twitch at the corner of his mouth.

"Lord Seaworth," he replied, neither breaking his stride nor turning about. "It is good that you are alive, there are many things to which we must attend. You can serve, I hope?" Stannis turned now and spared a look at his Lord Confessor. Davos' face had color and his expression was strong, but his gray hairs and sunken eye sockets told another story.

"I am," Davos replied. "My imprisonment wearied me greatly, but I am still whole." He paused, smiling slightly. "At least, I am as whole as I was when I left you last."

"I owe Lord Harlaw a great debt," Stannis said firmly, turning away. The Lord of Ten Towers had gone above his duty in rescuing Lord Seaworth. Stannis did not have so many loyal men that he could afford to lose his Lord Confessor.

"Lord Harlaw has many ideas about how you might repay that debt."

Stannis grimaced. The only openhanded men were beggars. "I should be happy to," Stannis stated. "If he is stronger, then so am I, and a man who relies on my patronage cannot easily rebel."

Davos made no reply, and they walked for some time in silence. "Davos," Stannis said eventually. "What do your men say of Lord Tyrion?"

"That he loves you not," Davos replied quickly. "But I do not think he will oppose you. He's made a great show of his surrender, and my spies see no lie in it. Considering the state of house Lannister, he seems to be the spirit of cordiality."

"Considering I killed his father and sister, you mean?" Stannis shook his head. "If there was a house in the Westerlands I could replace his with, I would do it in a heartbeat."

"The Lannisters have ruled here for the better part of ten-thousand years. You'd have an easier time replacing the mountains."

Stannis knew the truth of Davos' words, but that did not make him enjoy their current situation anymore. Tyrion would be a weak lord, he had seen to that. But even so, there were a thousand seditious activities he could undertake against the realm if the bitterness in his heart ran deep enough. "Two wars and half a dozen robber barons and still the realm tears at the edges." The knot in his stomach tightened. The Crown weighed heavy upon his head.

For a moment Davos said nothing. "The realm has been torn, I think. What comes now is the work of sewing it back together."

Wise advice. Jon Arryn had said nearly the same thing all those years ago. So many things had happened since then. So little had changed.

"The realm is truly yours now," Davos stated, answering Stannis' unspoken question. "Those who thought you weak have been defeated, and those whose loyalty you were unsure of rallied around you. My men all confirm the report, your Grace. You have the Lords' respect."

Stannis closed his eyes. The Lords did not love him, though. Not as they had loved Robert. What sort of king ruled on fear alone? Tywin Lannister had. I will not be Tywin, Stannis vowed to himself, not for the first time. "You say I should heal the realm?" He scoffed, "Do you think healing lies within my power? Do you think me a master of smiles and japes?" He would not be a Tywin, but he could not be a Mace, nor a Robert.

Davos did not reply immediately. "There is more than one way to heal," he said eventually. "Justice and peace are better for the realm than a thousand japes."

"So we must hope." But Stannis did not believe it.

Davos left him then and Stannis was made busy with preparation for the feast. Servants dressed him and washed him, and he sat down to the table, flanked on one side by Stark and on the other by Lannister. Stannis found himself wishing that Davos could sit up at the table with him, or that Lyanna could be pulled back from Winterfell, or even Willas from Highgarden. Instead, He felt Stark's suspicious gray eyes on him all throughout the feast, and Young Lord Lannister excused himself at the first possible moment. There was talking, but only such as the evening required. Tarly and Stark had to be toasted for their success. When the evening had drawn on late and most of the Lord were deep in their cups, Stark drew near to his side. Stannis took a long drink from his water before acknowledging him.

"Stark." He said at last.

"Your Grace," Eddard replied, his cool grey eyes quiet and unreadable. He had the same eyes as his sister but filled with suspicion and distrust instead of calm understanding. Lyanna had once looked at him like that too, Stannis remembered. Might Lord Stark someday hate him less? That was too much to hope for.

"Your enemies are finished," Lord Stark continued, his voice low and deep. "Your rule has now been established beyond all doubt. I hear that even this Vulture King in the South has met with justice?"

The last was phrased as a question, and Stannis replied in the affirmative. "Someone calling himself that has been executed, yes. But it is just a name, and any brigand with more pride than sense can take it up again."

"Your headsmen have been busy."

"Yes, you have." Stannis bit out. That had been too sharp by half, but what did Lord Stark expect? Stannis studied his glass of water. "What was it you came here to say, Lord Stark? I have no illusions about the love you bear for me. You would not come to sit by me here for idle chatter."

"I might." Lord Stark replied stiffly. "I am not so well known to you that you can say what I may or may not do."

True enough, Stannis supposed. "I am afraid you will find me a poor conversant. I have not the talent my brother had, of making easy conversation with strangers."

"I fear I am much the same," Lord Stark replied. "The Quiet Wolf, that was my brother's name for me. Did you know that he fathered a bastard on the woman I wanted to marry?"

Stannis' mind went back to Harenhall, and the tall, handsome Stark that he had seen there, laughing and making sport. He could believe it easily enough. Who was the woman Stark referred to? He remembered hearing that Brandon Stark had got a bastard on some Northern wench. Ryswell, perhaps? But it was no matter. "You think to befriend me by telling me of ancient slights your brother paid you? There was no love between Robert and me, but that does not make you and I the same."

"No, I do not think we are alike.," Ned agreed. "I hated Brandon at times, but I loved him too, and death made me feel his absence sharply. He would have been a better Lord, I think, for all his flaws."

"You are right. We are not alike. I have no such illusions about Robert. He did not have the temperament required for kingship."

Something sad sparkled in Stark's eyes, but a smile graced his lips. "Aye," he said, nodding, "Aye, it would have suited him very ill."

Stannis found himself smiling too, and the expression felt strange upon his lips. "Ah, I wish he hadn't died," Stannis said, "If only to see him attempting to sit still on the Iron Throne for hours and hours." Or to see him listening to Cersei's endless aggrievements… but no. If he had lived he would have married Lyanna, not Cersei, and that idea caused Stannis to scowl again.

"He might have learned, eventually," Ned argued. "A lordly seat can be a harsh tutor. Winterfell has forced me to cast aside my shyness. 'Men will not die for a stranger,' as my father used to say that."

"Aye, and neither will they die for a miser. That is what I have learned. Loyalty does not come cheap." Stark moved to reply, but Stannis cut him off. "Don't pretend otherwise. Even you came close to offering rebellion, once." Stannis felt his lip curl. Robert had been generous, always. That had been his natural temperament. As with all things, what had come to Robert naturally had been a hard-earned lesson for Stannis. Perhaps next he would discover the necessity of whoring and drunkenness.

"You wrong me," Stark replied coolly. "I was wroth, over Lyanna, but I never thought of rebellion. I swore an oath."

Stannis drank his water. Everyone swore oaths.

"I swore an oath to you," Stark repeated, his voice low and serious. "And I cannot do otherwise but keep it. That is my curse, do you understand? I do not swear falsely."

Stannis swallowed. Damn Stark, but he understood him all too well. "Aye," he said, his own voice sounding strange and distant to him. "My curse is duty. I had wanted to keep my oaths to Aerys, to turn my brother over and avoid the siege, but I could not. I could not turn the crown aside either. I cannot do so now. If I were free, I should cast my crown into the sea and retire to Storm's End to let the Kingdom sort out its own trouble. I suppose you would as soon be feasting with your wife and sister in Winterfell."

"I would," Stark admitted. "Greyjoy never raided the North, and I have not my father's southern ambitions. But I should thank you for returning my nephew and sister to me."

He had been a fool for trying to keep them in the first place. Stark would have been in his rights to threaten war and rebellion. Arryn had told Stannis as much, but he had been too great a fool to heed him. And yet… he found himself glad that he had done it. He had enjoyed her company. He had enjoyed her company altogether too much, for a man who was married. He scowled at the thought. "I gave you nothing that was not yours."

They passed some time, then, in companionable silence. Eddard was different from what Stannis had expected. He had always seen him as a shy, weak-willed sort. The kind of man who so often attached themselves to Robert and adored his every step.

"You were not wrong, earlier," Stark said, abruptly.

Stannis stirred from his thoughts and frowned. What had he not been wrong about?

"I did not approach you for conversation alone. I had a request."

"There is not very much I could refuse you. Your refusal to take favors from me is at this point a matter of embarrassment to the whole realm."

"You need a wife," Stark stated flatly.

Stannis' mind whirled and he felt as though he was about to be sick. His glower deepened. "Renly is my heir," He said with some force. His thoughts turned to Lyanna, suddenly, but he killed that idea. Lord Stark surely meant to name some other Northern girl. Lyanna would not want to come south, and becoming queen would distance her from her son. But what Northern girl did Eddard expect to foist on him? Or was this his wife's doing? Had she badgered her husband into naming some Riverlander? "I have no desire to marry any time soon."

"But marry you must," Stark pressed.

"Aye." Stannis could not deny it. He wanted another wife about as much as he wanted another Tywin Lannister. But the succession was thin and that gave the Lords cause for fear. What if Young Lord Renly should die of a winter chill, they would say. What if he should die in a tourney? Who would be King then? Cyrenna? Steffon? Or should they turn to Jon Snow, or Daenerys, or Rhaenys? Stannis had more rivals than heirs, and there were still Lords in the Realm who would smell weakness.

But another marriage meant another Cersei or someone near as bad. Lord Hightower had a daughter, barely more than a child, that Stannis' advisors were fond of mentioning. Others brought up Princess Arianne of Dorne or Mace Tyrell's younger sister. Beautiful, sweet, clever, all of them were, or so Stannis' advisers were fond of saying. Cersei had been all those things too.

"Whose daughter did you have in mind?" Stannis said with a sigh.

Ned drew back from him, the ghost of a smile playing on his lips. "My father's."

Stannis felt his heart quicken within him, and his breaths became shallow. "No." The force of his voice surprised him.

Ned said nothing, electing to drink his Dornish red.

Stannis' eyes fixed on the center of the far wall. "I need someone who can give me an heir, Stark. Your sister nearly died the last time she gave birth. She has a bastard boy who's a threat to my realm, and besides all that half the realm already thinks her my mistress. They will say she lied about Cersei to steal her crown."

"The Maesters say that she has no reason to fear another birth. Her difficulties arose from her youth, and she was not dealt permanent harm." Ned replied coolly. "As to Jon, he will be fostered with me before he is too old. You should know Lyanna well enough that she does not desire the throne for him."

"Have you spoken to her of this?" He half-hissed.

Ned's eyes smiled. "The idea was hers, your Grace. I opposed her at first. I did not know you. I did not trust you with her, truth be told. But she convinced me otherwise, and I now see the truth of her words."

Stannis' mind whirled. For what reason... Lyanna was not some lustful maid, nor should she have seized upon him of all people if she was. She did not care for status, or power, or finery. Nor were her prospects so poor that she should despair. All she had ever wanted was to return home, and he had granted that to her. Why should she seek to return to the 'stinking refuse heap' of King's Landing, as she had been wont to call it? She did not hate him, but there had never been anything between them but respect such as was proper between a King and a lady of the realm.

No, that was not true. His teeth ground against each other. He had wanted Lyanna. She was no great beauty, as Cersei had been. Her face was thin and bony and she wore her hair in a wild fashion. But the way she moved, she talked, she smiled… that had stirred feelings in his chest that had been less than proper. More than that, though, she had been… kind to him. No, it had not been kindness. He struggled to think of what he might call it. Lyanna's eyes held respect and consideration where the eyes of other women showed pity or contempt.

He scowled and pulled his thoughts away from her. There was no way to answer this, no way to think. What could he say, to such a request? He wanted Jon Arryn to tell him what to do.

"Should you wish to ask her," Ned said lightly, "She came with me to Casterly Rock."

Stannis started. "Here? In Casterly Rock?" The idea was ridiculous

Ned nodded, his expression bemused. "She said you would want to speak with her. She sailed south from Torhenn Square shortly after we took Pyke."

Stannis' jaw flexed. It was not gratifying to be so easily anticipated.

Ned looked to the side. "She said she would be in the godswood, your Grace"

The godswood. Of course. Stannis rose from the table.

"You will not be answering me yet, then?" Ned's quiet voice seemed to Stannis to be mocking him.

"Not yet."

The feast was already over, and so Stannis freed himself of the Great Hall without difficulty. Ridding himself of courtiers was more difficult, but at length, he convinced them to guard the entrance to the godswood and let him in alone. His men were cautious, here in the center of Lannister power. But Stannis could afford this much risk.

She was sitting under the Heart Tree's spreading bows, her plain gray dress stained by grass and dirt. She sang a lilting tune to no one but herself, heedless of his coming into the glade.

There were three ravens sat on a tree,  
They were as black as they might be.  
Then one of them said to his mate,  
Where shall we now our breakfast take?  
Down in yonder dear green field,  
There lies a Knight slain under his shield,  
His hounds they lie down at his feet,  
So well do they their Master keep,  
His hawks they fly so eagerly,  
There's no fowl dare him come nie  
Down there comes a fallow Doe,  
As great with young as she might go,  
She lifted up his bloody head,  
And kissed his wounds that were so red,  
She got him up upon her back,  
And carried him to earthen lake,  
She buried him before the prime,  
She was dead herself ere even-song time.  
God send every gentleman,  
Such hawks, such hounds, and such a lement

A twig snapped under Stannis' foot as the song ended, and Lyanna's eyes swung up to meet his.

"Were you listening to my song?"

Stannis' mouth was dry. He could not think of what to say. He did not want to talk of songs.

She rose, dusting herself off. "It used to be one of my favorites, from my youth. You should have seen me cry when the minstrels played it for me."

"Song and verse are things for which I care little."

"But what did you think of the story?"

Stannis sighed deeply, thinking over the words she had sung. What was there to say? "It's well enough, I suppose, but it ends in foolishness." The words were out before he could stop them, and he scowled at himself. That was not what he had wanted to say. "What is enviable about a man whose widow and child die in grief? Better that she live and bear him an heir to carry on his name."

She smiled. "Were I still a maid of fifteen, I would be wroth with you, Your Grace. It is good I have learned since then. I find now that my mind is agreed with yours in this. There is more heroism in living with the pain of loss than there is in dying futilely in grief."

He was ill-equipped for this sort of conversation. He stirred uneasily. "A man who loses something deserves no special distinction or regard. Soon or late, everyone loses what they love."

"Aye, if loss were distinction we would both of us be high indeed, would we not?"

Stannis' eyes turned to the sky. She spoke truth. First he had lost father and mother and gotten a patch-faced fool as a replacement for them. Then Robert had all but abandoned him. Then Robert had died. Cersei had betrayed him, forced him to kill her and to separate him from his children. Who would he lose next? Davos? Renly?

Lyanna had lost near as much. Her mother, her father, her brother, and Robert too, though he did not know if she counted his loss.

"I saw my parents die," Stannis said, his voice hollow. "Right in Shipbreaker Bay, within sight of Storm's End. I cried to the Seven, then, praying for their salvation, but no answer came. But why should the gods mark the prayers of one man more than the next? I have not… I have only prayed to them once since then."

"And then they hid Cersei from you," Lyanna said with a laugh. "I suppose you have not reconsidered your impiety?"

The impiety had all been Cersei's. But was that not more proof that the gods gave little heed to the affairs of men? "Why should you mock me? You spend long hours in the godswood, but I know that it is not for prayer."

Her face grew serious. "I find that my prayers grow with my fear. And my fear has grown with age. The tower in Dorne was something of an awakening in that regard. I prayed to every god I knew while I was there."

"Which one of them sent your brother?"

"He did that himself," she said quickly. "But they kept me alive. They kept me whole, and sane. There was little more"

Stannis' thoughts turned to the traveling sept at his camp on the Blackwater. "Aye." Not daring to meet her eyes, he stared into the wooden eyes of the heart tree. He could not keep rambling on like this about irrelevant matters. "Your brother spoke to me, Lady Lyanna."

She smiled. "I know."

"It is a bad match," He stated, forcing himself now to look her in the eyes.

She smiled with her eyes. "Truly?"

"They will say that you denounced Cersei so that you might steal her crown. They will say I conspired with my mistress to have my wife killed. They will call you a sorceress and a godless heathen."

"And they will say Selmy and half the Kingsguard conspired with us too? That Trant confessed to his crimes the next day?"

He did not say anything.

"Your Grace," She continued. "You won. Those who lost will say whatever they like. The rest will believe whatever you tell them."

"The Faith..."

"I've been praying, you know," She stated, interrupting him. "After Cersei's arrest, I mean. The Sept of Baelor at first, and then in White Harbor and at Winterfell. I worship the Seven more than you do, and it has not gone unmarked. I will not forsake the Old Gods, but I do not think that I shall have to, and this great council of yours will be more than happy to accept me, I am sure."

"And the accusations of sorcery?"

"Would they mean anything to you, even if they were true?"

Stannis frowned. No, they would not. Lyanna was not bathing in the blood of the innocent, or anything so ridiculous. Davos would have found that much out. Women were always sorceresses, in the histories. He doubted the truth of half of it. But talk of sorcery had been no barrier to other Kings. Lyanna would not be a perfect queen, but no person could be. "You should know better than to think me afraid of what the court thinks."

Lyanna laughed. "I know that I am… not a perfect match for you. But my brother and I are loyal and you know me. You trust me, I think, and I am willing. That must count for something. Your Grace, you know that you must marry. Would you rather marry a Hightower or a Redwyne?"

"No." The force of his refusal surprised him. "No, I would rather have you if you were twice the treacherous sorceress that they name you. I would rather have you and your bastard than any proud Reacher Princess. I desire you. You clearly know that much already, but I will say it if it gratifies you. I respect you too, and that should gratify you more, for there are few of whom I would say that. Certainly, there is no woman in the Reach of whom I would say that."

"But you have no idea what it is that you take upon yourself. This crown kills those who wear it, and not quickly, unless you are lucky. Whatever you are now, if you become queen, nothing will remain. It will take everything good and right in you and crush it down as though in a vice. The realm, Lyanna, it requires everything from you. I WILL DIE upon that throne, or else live to see myself corrupted." His voice came sharp and pained, almost mocking. "Do you love me, Lyanna? Do you think I will comfort you? Hah!" He clenched and unclenched his jaw, fighting to find the words to say. "I am too scarred and bitter to give you such things. All I can give you is struggle and pain and power you do not desire. I would not curse you with being named Queen. I will marry..." He drew in a great breath. "Some insufferable Reacher woman who deserves me and all that I come with."

They were silent for a moment, then, Lyanna's cold, implacable face regarding his own. Her whole body had stretched taut, and blood crept up her neck into her face. He could feel her response coming, and he braced himself for the rage his speech had doubtless earned. Her eyes turned red, then, and with a start Stannis realized she was crying. A great, heaving sob pulled through her and she shuddered, her face turning away from his as though she wanted to hide from his gaze.

Her eyes were still ringed with red when she turned to face him again, but now she was laughing and for some reason, that was worse.

"You think that I deserve better?" She spat, "I deserve worse than what you could ever do to me." She sucked in a breath through her teeth and continued. "I deserved to die in that tower, Stannis," She said hotly. "I earned that bloody birth and imprisonment. I went there willingly. You speak of duty, and of goodness? I forsook everything I had, all my friends, all my duty, all my honor, to sleep with a married man nearly half again my age, and most of the realm burned for it. Your brother and mine both died as a result of my transgressions. Rhaegar did not kidnap me. He did not have to. I was a wanton girl and a fool."

Stannis' gut churned. He moved his mouth to speak but no sound came out. Lyanna looked away, her complexion clearing. "There," she announced. "Now you see what I am. Do you still think that I deserve better than what I have?"

"This… this is all true?"

Lyanna's laugh was as cold as a wind from the North. "Why do you think I agreed to let you keep Jon for so long? I could have written to Ned. You could not have refused him if he had pressed the issue. But with so many dead for my sake, I could not have more."

"Your stay in King's Landing… this has been penance?"

"The Old Gods do not ask for penance. Only confession. But I suppose that yes, I was. I hoped for some kind of redemption."

"This is folly," Stannis stated, his brows grinding together in fury. "What wrong have you done the realm? You failed your family, that I will acknowledge, but do not take the sins of Aerys upon yourself. The rebellion is no more your fault than it is mine. Do your duty by your family, but if these are your reasons then I will not be an altar for some misguided sacrifice." Stannis turned to leave.

"Wait..." She said, tears in her voice again. "I had more to say."

Stannis turned and regarded her. More? What else had she done?

"This idea of mine… our marriage. It would be no penance." her words came fast and loose now, tumbling over one another like water over rocks. "My time in King's Landing, it started like that. Penance, like you say. It was that for years. I hated it, every second of it, and exalted in the hurt. I felt so righteous for what I was suffering, so holy. But then, when Elia's Aegon disappeared, I realized how great the evils of the realm were, and how little my petty sacrifices did to make it better. Retiring as I had from all forms of public life was just another kind of death. And as you said, death is easy. I had been lazy, wallowing in my suffering like a sow in the mud."

"My suffering did not matter. My soul did not matter. Who cared whether I deserved death for what I had done or not? The world had moved on, and my tragedy had been consigned to history. What mattered now were the people I cared for. Jon and Ned and… and you. For I came to see what kind of man you are, Stannis, and I have respected you long afore now. You are a good man, and after all this time I have come to realize that nothing else-"

"You should hate me."

A great sigh escaped her. "I did hate you, for a time. But once I thought to look, all I could see was that you and you alone were all that stood between me and the vipers. You and Jon Arryn and your Rat and a few others were all that prevented chaos and rebellion."

Stannis laughed coldly. "I have not prevented chaos or rebellion with any great deal of success."

"You need aid," Lyanna stated, her voice forceful. "You need an ally and not another player of the game as your wife. Do you say that the crown is crushing you? Then take my hand, Stannis." A smile quirked the side of her mouth. "Else, if you refuse me now, all your future grumbling will be made hollow."

He closed the distance between them and pulled her lips into his in a hot kiss. She tasted of salt, the tears still running down her cheeks. She pulled into him and raised her hands to the back of his head to knot in his thick black hair. His own hands found her thin waist. Stannis felt huge, ungainly, and awkward, bending over her as a tree bends over a river. Even so, for the first time in years, Stannis felt something akin to hope.


	32. Epilogue

-  
The Testimony of Septon Terrence

298 years after the conquest of Aegon the Conqueror, the fifteenth year of the reign of King Stannis Baratheon, First of his name.

Today it has been fifteen years since the crowning of King Stannis Baratheon, first of his name, and as I muse upon the justice of the Father I come to ask myself, has any dynasty had so auspicious a beginning as the Baratheon line? Robert the Breaker was a man without equal, a man who forged his legend before most men learn to shave. Was there ever a man more fit to be king? His skill in battle was unquestioned, his mind quick and clear, and his heart sure to turn any foe into friend. Who can doubt the greatness of King Robert the First? Look no further than the men of greatness who he attracted to his cause. I do not need to tell you of the Lords Stark, Arryn, and Tully, who risked their lives for him at every turn, or how even Barristan Selmy, that noble and loyal soul, pledged allegiance to him after crossing their blades only once. I think that in coming seasons we shall mark the passing of the years not from the conquest of Aegon, but from the rise of King Robert.

But the Star of Robert the Breaker fell. His greatness was too much for this imperfect world to support, and the waters of the Trident are forever richer for his noble blood having been shed there. Maidens everywhere wept with his fall, and all men of learning wrung their hands and wondered, what was to become of the realm? What man born of woman could ever equal King Robert? Aerys would lose the throne, but who should replace him?

For it was sure that Aerys' tyranny should meet its demise ere long. Such cravens and lickspittles as Aerys had attracted were no match for the constellation of greatness that had risen as one man to oppose him. But Stannis Baratheon was a thousand leagues away, besieged by the most fearsome of Aerys' supporters, Lord Mace Tyrell. Ah, Lord Mace, whose heart is too generous by half, and who still supported Aerys even when all was lost. But in warring against Robert the Breaker and his brother, he nearly caused calamity upon the whole realm. For what should have happened, if King Stannis had fallen then at Storm's End?

But the gods are kind and the King lived and came north to be crowned. What sort of a man is King Stannis? That was the question on all men's lips, for the King had not been known outside the Stormlands ere then. They soon had a swift answer, for with him to King's Landing the King brought hundreds of his loyal men, of common blood but possessing noble hearts, and these men were as great a testimony to King Stannis as any host of witnesses could be. King Stannis did not have his brother's force and humor, but every man who knew him worshipped at his feet.

But such testimony is now unnecessary, for every man knows the greatness of King Stannis the Stern Stag. Who does not know that he smashed Lord Tywin Lannister's host at the Battle of Hobb Hill, striking down the Old Lion in single combat? What bard does not know the song of Queen Cersei's vile treachery or the breaking of the Iron Fleet? What other King can claim so long a list of accomplishments? King Stannis has fought and won, he has shown mercy and shown justice, and through it all, he has won the love and loyalty of the realm. Fire and Blood forged the Iron Throne, but Aegon the Conqueror himself could not sit half so comfortably on that Throne as King Stannis does.

I travel now with the Royal family as they go to visit the Queen's family in the North. Everywhere we go the smallfolk greet us with smiles and celebration, for they know it is to King Stannis that their prosperity is owed. The Queen, too, they love, and how could they not? For she is as fair and beautiful and kind as a woman can be.

Some unworthy men of the cloth cast doubt upon the piety and faith of the King and Queen, but the common folk are a better judge than any corrupt Septon. The King and Queen are as near to an embodiment of the Father and Mother as any two mortals could be, and I can personally attest that the Queen is not slack in her attendance to prayer. The King does not pray in public, but that is his pure and humble spirit. He refrains from the common assembly only because his fervent prayers would disrupt the worship of others, and his piety could never allow such a disruption. Is it not known that the treachery of Queen Cersei was revealed to the King in a vision as he prayed privately?

This family of the Queen's are no godless pagans either. I have corresponded happily with a Septa Mordane of Winterfell who speaks in the warmest of terms concerning Good Lord Stark's household. They worship the Old Gods, as is their right and custom, but they worship the Seven as well, with the sort of eagerness found only among newfound believers. And indeed, their veneration of the Old Gods does not lead them to wickedness, so why should it be held against them?

Who can speak ill of Stannis Baratheon's rightfulness? Even the Targaryens, such as are left of them, acknowledge the truth of Stannis' claim. Viserys the half-year king gladly exchanged his name for a cloak of black and a Maester's chain. Rhaenys, daughter of Rhaegar, married Prince Renly and rides with our party even now. The only Targaryen that truly remains is young Daenerys, the ward of Lord Stark, and the report of her is most encouraging. Let those who mock at mercy take heed, for Stannis' generous spirit has earned him loyalty in every quarter.

Every man and woman of Westeros supports the King, and the gods as well, for why else is his reign followed by the greatest summer in living memory? We have had peace for a decade, and there is no reason why we should not have peace for a decade more. It is easy to forget that for all his great achievements and wisdom, the King is yet a young man, and will have decades more to rule. And after him come his children, demure and humble and serious. Truly, the line of the Baratheons will be like a summer that has no end.

**

Stannis' lip curled as he surveyed the paper. "Sweet lies mixed with truth," he stated firmly. "I should rather have my name slandered."

They stood in the solar of Castle Black. Davos had come by way of Eastwatch a few days before along with a ship full of supposed Targaryen loyalists that had recently been caught in a plot on Driftmark. In truth, the traitors had been executed and the men were his. The King had decided that the lands North of the Wall had been too long ignored by the Seven Kingdoms, and Davos obeyed. The Royal Party had come North along the Kingsroad, stopping in Winterfell for some weeks, and the tales that Davos had heard of Stannis' time there had given him considerable pause.

"The book may be full of lies," Davos replied evenly. "But at least our Septon Terrence does not seem to be working against us."

"Be they friend or foe, Terrence's masters in the Starry Sept will be the greatest threat to our rule in times to come. Their corruption is preferable to the rot that the Lannisters had enabled, but do not think I am blind to how easily they might turn on me or my son."

Davos looked away. Stannis' son. Prince Davos Baratheon. That name would always be a sore point with him. He did not like the attention the name garnered, even if Davos was a right and ancient name of house Baratheon. "You esteem them a greater threat than the Targaryens?"

"Which Targaryens?" Stannis scoffed. "That house is dead in the male line and even if Aegon were to reappear, Dorne would not support him. It would be easier to put a Blackfyre on the Throne. Septon Terrence had that much right at least. The only Targaryen left is Daenerys, and my claim is better than hers in any case."

"But Daenerys..." Davos remembered himself and stopped. "Your Grace," He continued after a moment. "I've heard the tales, same as anyone here at the Wall. It is unlike you to avoid the topic so long. Are the rumors true?"

"I will say nothing on the matter," Stannis replied, his voice sharp. "These walls have ears, and I will not be the source of rumor. For now, all you need know is that I have no fear from that quarter. The rumors that concern me are these tales of Kings Beyond the Wall and dead walking amongst the ice. Are those rumors true?"

"Yes," Davos replied simply. "There is disagreement about particulars amongst them all, and many of the stewards and builders deny it, but every one of the rangers acknowledges the truth. I am sure that Lord Mormont has already shown you the writhing hand he keeps in that cage of his. Something deadly with blue eyes stalks out there in the haunted forest, and the wildlings are gathering into massive warbands in fear. There are even reports of giants and mammoths on the move. If it's grumpkins and snarks, your Grace, it's a pack of bleeding large ones."

Stannis did not reply immediately but paced to the window. Davos followed a few steps behind. The King's jawline ground against itself as they looked over the yard below. Beneath them in the practice yard, Renly was squaring off against Benjen Stark in the yard. Of all those assembled, Renly's wife was perhaps the least interested in the outcome of the duel, as she idly chattered with the Queen. Stannis' sons, Davos and Edric, were not nearly so calm. For Edric that was no surprise, the boy was always cheering at tourneys, but to see dour young Davos so excited… that was a rarer pleasure. Davos caught a brief smile from the King.

The match itself was over in seconds, with Renly the victor, and then they set about preparing for the next round.

Davos drew in a breath. "You know, Your Grace, the men here told me that you're only the second King of the Seven Kingdoms to come to the Wall."

Stannis did not reply, but his posture indicated that he listened.

"The Wall has stood for eight thousand years without the unified support of the Seven Kingdoms," Davos continued, "I've no idea what's out there driving the wildlings mad, but the Wall will be better supported than it ever has been." Davos paused. "I am no great General, your Grace, but the Wall seems like a pretty solid fortification."

Stannis' brief smile returned brighter and stronger than before. He looked younger, these days than he had a decade ago. "You do not even know the half of it," Stannis supplied. "Walk with me, Lord Seaworth."

Castle Black was not large, as fortresses went, and the halls were mostly empty. They wound through the narrow corridors until they exited near the stables, where a dozen of the Stormguard and Richard Horpe were guarding one of the stalls. Davos frowned. Two guards or three should have been sufficient to guard the stables if it had only been the King's horses that were of concern. What had the King brought North with him? Davos did not give voice to his thoughts, his mouth dry with worry.

"Your Grace," Horpe said, bowing to the King. "Lord Seaworth," His bow to Davos was considerably more shallow and accompanied by an ironic smile. "Have you come to see the tiny terror?"

Stannis merely nodded, and the guards moved to unlock the stable. As the door swung open, a small gasp escaped Davos. A slip of a girl, silver-haired and purple-eyed, sat on a stool to the side of the stable, her bare feet resting on the hard-packed earth. On her lap sat a scaled serpent, with tiny wings curled about it. The girl looked up at them in surprise when they entered.

"Your Grace!" the girl nearly squeaked. She moved as though she meant to rise and curtsey, but thought better of it as the creature on her lap shifted.

"You may stay seated for now," Stannis stated coldly. "We are not in public and this conversation will be easier if we do not wake the dragon. I have brought with me my Master of Whisperers, Lord Davos Seaworth. You will have heard of him, I expect?"

The girl swallowed uneasily, and Davos felt a pang of shame. Times were better now. Did people still fear him? He smiled encouragingly to her. "We have met before, but you were rather younger then, Daenerys."

She laughed nervously but looked back to the King immediately. There was fear in those purple eyes, but she was not so fearful of the King as she had been of him. Perhaps that was a good thing. "You have made your decision, then, regarding my Viserion?"

She meant the dragon, Davos realized. He knew what his decision would be. Dragons were creatures of songs, and in Davos' opinion it was best if they remained as creatures of song. How many years would it be before the beast on the girl's lap ate a man? How long before it burnt a city to the ground? The girl may love the beast, but Davos saw little more than a dog in the early stages of madness, soon to become dangerous to all. Surely Stannis would agree. Dead the Targaryen cause might be, but a dragon could make a claimant out of anyone.

"The dragon lives," Stannis said flatly. "With one condition."

The girl sighed with relief and bowed her head. "I am your loyal subject, your Grace."

"Therein lies the problem," Stannis stated, a snarl creeping at the edge of his voice. "Subjects are prone to rebellion, and rebels cannot be allowed to have dragons."

The girl's eyes reddened as though she were about to cry. "Your Grace," She pleaded. "I have never once acted against your realm. I am not ambitious, Lord Stark can tell you that much. I..."

"How long do dragons live, Daenerys?"

She looked down.

"Balerion the Black Dread lived for nearly two centuries. Even if I could trust you, can I trust your children? Your great-grandchildren? Or should I lock you in the vault again and hope that no other dragonseed claims your dragon?"

"What can you possibly ask of me?" Daenerys cried. "What can I offer you? You say you have a condition, but there is nothing I can do for or against you except give my word?"

"Aye, there is nothing you can do," Stannis said simply. "But that is the way of the world. Neither strength nor cunning nor virtue have any value when the fates are decided, and it serves little purpose to complain of it. Better to accept what comes, and live without regret. It is a bitter lesson to come by, but learn it you must if you would be Queen."

The girl's face went white. "Queen?"

"The dragon lives if you consent to marry my eldest son," Stannis replied.

Daenerys swallowed nervously, and the beast on her lap rose and circled about her neck as though sensing her agitation. "Your Grace," She said, breathless. "This is not an honor I had looked for."

"I know that," Stannis spat. "If you had sought it, I would not have made the offer. Power follows duty and duty is a curse. Anyone who hunts after power is either a fool or a blackguard, and while I live I will allow neither to come near the throne. But if you swear to become one with my house and serve my son loyally as his wife in a few years' time, I will allow you to keep the dragon. Elsewise, we shall kill it now and you shall be permitted to live out the rest of your days in the Maidenvault."

"The Maidenvault?" Davos murmured. Had not they done away with using that building for such a purpose? Until recently they had planned on Daenerys marrying some minor Northern Lord's son to diffuse any claim that Aegon might have. Provided Aegon ever appeared that is.

"Young Daenerys has discovered a knack for reawakening dragons," Stannis explained. "Her _talents_ will either be bound to my house or else they will die with her. And before you ask, no, I would not trust her to the Faith."

"I will do it," Danerys said, interrupting. Her pale skin had gone red with heat. "Your Grace, I mean. I will marry the Prince, I..."

Davos thought a moment about Stannis' eldest. Shy, clumsy, with his overlarge hands and feet and his father's jawline. It was hard to imagine him married to a beauty nearly five years older than himself. But stranger marriages had found love, in time, and time they would have if the gods were good. The King had many years of prosperity yet.

"Why?" Daenerys said eventually, still flushed and pink. "Your Grace, forgive my impudence, but why? You say that you do not want power for yourself, but why then should you desire a dragon? I cannot believe that you need one to rule the Seven Kingdoms."

"I don't," Stannis replied simply. "Not now. But the world is changing and I am not blind to it. Warlocks in Qarth seize power, the Dothraki unify under a God-King, and nameless terrors spill out of the Lands of Always Winter." A bark of a laugh escaped him. "Do you think I can afford to ignore all this? When a dragon is born in the crypts of Winterfell as a comet streaks across the sky, do you think that I can turn a blind eye? Legends are walking the earth again, and my children will either walk among them or die."

Davos supposed that no one in the Night's Watch could complain that Stannis was ignoring the danger North of the Wall. Whatever these Grumpkins and Snarks were, Davos felt sorry for them.


End file.
